Cheer Co
by Shahrezad1
Summary: When Fear Co. changes to fit the times, Johnny Worthington and Rosie Levin are two "old dogs" which have to team up to learn new tricks.
1. A Monster's Gotta Do

**Cheer Co.**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** When Fear Co. changes to fit the times, Johnny Worthington and Rosie Levin are two "old dogs" which have to team up to learn new tricks.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters. Or really, anything Nathan Fillion**—**related. Woe is me.

~/~/~

Chapter 1

"Thhank you for attending our mandatory retraining meeting. My name ith William H. Thlaughter, but you can call me Will," the orange monster grinned gruesomely, his jagged under-bite catching every now and again on his upper lip in a slight lisp, "although given the nature of thith meeting, you might want to remember the latht one ath well. Because you can't thpell Thlaughter without 'laughter.'"

A few of the monsters present chuckled weakly, and Johnny Worthington shook his head, arms folded and form lounging in the uncomfortable metal chair. The break room smelled of rancid food, the side effect of certain monsters' eating habits, unwashed bodies and worse as Scarers of all shapes and sizes rubbed shoulders, whether they wanted to or not. At the front a creaky projector kept flickering and buzzing as Fear Co.'s logo wavered against a blank screen and the name, "William H. Slaughter," was written on the board next to it. Along with the words, "Mandatory Retraining Meeting."

The assembly had been announced two weeks prior, so as to circulate amongst all the fear floors. There'd been broadcasts over the intercom, fliers pinned on the break room corkboard and reminders sloppily taped to the doors. To account for the sheer number of Scarers Fear Co. employed they'd organized four separate meetings, one for each level, and his was the first of its kind.

Nate Williams had asked that he cue them all in as to what the bosses were up to, and while Johnny had responded with a quick and confident, 'sure, no problem,' he was just as nervous as the rest of his regular crew. Not that Worthington would be expressing such feelings any time soon.

The fact of the matter was that with scare numbers down the way that they were, and power shortages all across the country, everyone was on edge. Change was definitely in the air, but as the saying went, you couldn't make omelets without breaking a few Roc eggs.

His knee bounced with anxiety as he allowed Slaughter's words wash over him like day-old garbage, the man going over introductions and basic policies. Filtering his words like so many flies, Worthington only half listened as he instead examined his surroundings, from Fear Co.'s trademark steel girders plus black-and-red logo to the other Scarers around him.

There were familiar faces, of course, as grizzled and horrifying as he knew his own visage was, and unfamiliar ones. You could labor at a company like Fear Co. for twenty years and not know all of your own coworkers. Particularly if you pulled a steady shift, and someone played the part of your opposite.

Thus he wasn't at all surprised to note that roughly fifty percent of the hall was filled with strangers. Still, it would have been nice to have someone whose presence he enjoyed in attendance.

"…now that that'th been thettled, let'th move on. Ath many of you have probably noted, there'th been a decreathe in the Thcare intake lately, due to children'th being expothed to thcary imageth in media and via amuthement parkth and thimilar entertainment," the speaker's expression became more serious as he pace-stomped back and forth, all four hands behind his back as his appearance became colored with agitation. Literally—the orange in his pigment shifted to vermilion with agitation.

Johnny frowned, form straightening as his attention swung front and center. Most "mandatory meetings," focused on elements such as team work, overall effort, and safety training. He typically gleaned what he could from such things and ignored the rest but…this sounded a tad serious, if Slaughter's body language was anything to go by.

The monster continued, brushing his grey hat up over a lined forehead as it began leaning low over his craggy face, "you've altho probably read about the eventth which occurred at Monthters Inc. rethently."

A murmuring rose from among the crowd, and the purple Scarer frowned slightly. Hearing about Waternoose had been a shock to everyone, particularly with his record as an upstanding businessman and Scarer. Randall Boggs' part had been less shocking, however, given Worthington's experience with the slimy salamander in college.

But the papers had been vague about their actual crimes, the courts remaining mum in what could only be the most serious of cases. No one knew the details of what had occurred, but speculation had been flying as thick and furry as a plague of poisonous goblin-bats migrating in New Ghoulsmark.

"With Waternoothe'th removal a new Thee-E-O hath been put in place—Jameth P. Thulivan."

The murmuring increased to a louder buzz of growls and whispers. Johnny Worthington III straightened, something like ice dripping down into one of his stomachs. The other one was clenched as a bevy of memories zoomed past his gaze.

Of his Senior year at Monsters U., mostly, but there were others. The moment when he realized that his old 'Brother'-slash-competitor had not only become a Scarer, but he had done so before him. And at Worthington's occupational "first choice," too. Only for the scaring heir to find employment at Fear Co., a decent enough institution if there was one, but it just wasn't the same.

Any dissatisfaction had dissolved for the most part over the course of his years as a Scarer. Instead replaced with a feeling of achievement as he rose up the ranks of Fear Co.'s employees. Sure, he didn't always get the top spot, playing a kind of Do-Si-Do with Scarers like Nate and someone from nights by the name of R. Mercado, but it was enough.

Even if hearing the name, "Sullivan," felt like a slap in the face.

With a start, he realized that he'd clean missed a chunk of Slaughter's speech, and if the look on his coworkers' faces were anything to go by then it had been important.

"—Energy hath proven more powerful than thcreamth. Neatly tholving our nation'th power depletion. With that in mind, thorces thay that a new department hath been put into development at Monthterth Inc., replathing their 'Thcare Floor' entirely…with a 'Laugh Floor.'"

"Wait, what?" Johnny muttered under his breath. Around him gasps and exclamations of surprise came from the trainer's audience.

The orange monster took the opportunity to press the projector button, watching a slide slowly shift into place. It bore a graph, indicating the sheer volume of energy gained by way of laughter rather than screams. The contrast left him stunned; the clean energy bar was increased at least three times its regular amount.

Slaughter clicked the screen again and it shifted to a diagram of the canisters themselves. Regular canisters couldn't even hold that much energy, much less store it long-term, resulting in the need for canister redevelopment. Not to mention that laughter typically came in multiples, rather than a single burst of fear.

Increasing the number of energy bursts per shift.

"Let it not be thaid that Fear Co. ith behind the timeth. With 'Progreth' in mind, the Thee-E-O'th of Fear Co. have dethided to do what benefitth them motht," a few dark looks were shared at that, but Slaughter ignored those if he did, in fact, see any of them, "That being thaid, Fear Co. hath dethided to follow in Monthterth Inc.'th path and thwitch producthion from Thcaring to Laughing."

If Worthington had been shocked before, he was flabbergasted now. How could the CEO's of the company expect a crew of Scarers to switch over to Laughter of all things…overnight?

The same question seemed to be on every other Scarer's face, along with a heavy dose of uncertainty, and Slaughter held up a hand in an attempt to calm them. He was only half successful.

"Retraining will begin immediately for all Thcarers interested in thwitching over to a career in comedy. For thothe who don't," the orange monster shrugged, as if to say, 'what can you do?',"they may very well thwitch plathes with their attendantth. It will be a time of adaptathion. Much like the Dinothaurs which ethcaped the human world when it no longer thupported them, driven out of the human world and coming to ourth to become the firtht monthterth, we may have to make thome thacrifitheth. But for all that ith lotht, we'll become greater for it."

_Huh. Right._ The purple monster growled darkly, crossing his arms and settling low into his seat. He wasn't the only one—a large handful of Scarers, the most horrifying of the bunch, were beginning to rebel and the few that weren't expressing anger held…fear. It seemed almost twisted that a Monster be afraid of anything, but this was their species' number one horror—a lack of security. Both the security of their own importance and purpose, and that of holding a steady job. Most of the workers he labored with had families to support or debts to pay—what would happen, he wondered, when their income was taken away?

Slaughter had one last dig of information, stating it with false cheerfulness behind his uneven smile as he waved at the bulletin board, "a litht hath been put together bathed on thkill level. Pleathe make thure to check it for your new Laughter Training parter before you leave."

Sitting on the end, Johnny could just barely squint out his own name at the end—as it always was. And there, next to, "J. Worthington," was, "R. Mercado," from the night shift.

~/~/~

AN: Sorry about the guy with the lisp. It just…happened. I was typing out his dialogue and misspelled something, and when I went to fix it Slaughter told me that there was nothing wrong with the way he spoke. And the sarcastic side of me thought that it was rather ironic that he couldn't say his own name.

That being said, no offense meant to those who have a lisp. And if you had difficulty reading this chapter's dialogue…just read it out loud and it'll make sense. Or replace every extra 'th' with an 's.' *shrugs*

I don't know where this story is coming from, by the way. One minute I was looking at Crispy's Johnny/Rosie art on Tumblr, the next my headcanon jumped them forward a few years and reminded me of the difficulties of switching from Scaring to Laughter. How would folks handle that, really, when the entire business is based on an old and outdated method? Especially as Johnny (and Rosie) aren't really made for comedy.

Plus I'm going to throw in some "grown up" problems and issues, as those presented themselves to me in bursts of inspiration presented by Johnny and Rosie, alternately. ^^

Well, regardless of this story's unexpected nature, I hope you enjoy this. Please review when you can. :)

(And if you ever have the chance to visit the Monsters U. website, you totally should. It's so incredibly similar to a real University website that I almost couldn't tell them apart, should you take out all the "Monster"-y babble. monstersuniversity edu /index. Html Remove spaces.)


	2. Try

**Cheer Co.**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** When Fear Co. changes to fit the times, Johnny Worthington and Rosie Levin are two "old dogs" which have to team up to learn new tricks.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters. Or really, anything Nathan Fillion**—**related. Woe is me.

~/~/~

Chapter 2

Leaving the meeting was a blur. The grey monster vaguely recalled having to remove Billy from someone's head at one point, yanking her son away with enough strength that she later found purple fur in his tentacles. Then Rosie was muscling aside her uncertainty as she drove to a dentist appointment she'd been putting off since before she got married.

She'd been "putting off" a lot of things since then. Moving from their apartment into an actual home, for one, ditching the old clunker she'd been driving since college, for another, and of course getting new glasses. There was always something more pressing to take care of. A crib for Billy, new canvases for Alex, and the daily requirements of sustenance and shelter. Neither of them had minded—Rosie was accustomed to "living on the (monetary) edge." As for Alex, artists weren't called, "starving," for nothing.

But it had all started adding up lately; Fear Co.'s meeting was merely an insult thrown out on top of injury.

Arriving at the dentist's office, her parking job was slopping at best, her rush to the door ungainly at worst. Upon entering the office she found herself under a barrage of salmon-painted walls and decorative Cacti, but the receptionist was efficient and appropriately deadpan as a patient squealed in the background.

Even so, Rosie was leery of the whole situation—she hated being put into the position of being in someone else's hands. Doctor's appointments resulted in having to be tied down even for the smallest shot or quickest examination. That wasn't even mentioning those few instances of having someone else sharpen her fangs or claws—massages were also clean out.

Some of her uncertainty involved leaving her burnt-brick 'bundle of energy' behind—did she dare, Rosie wondered?

Bringing Billy along hadn't been the plan. No, the plan had been to drop off her child at the company daycare— till Rosie found out that a recent bout of Pus-Pox had closed the place for sterilization. She'd had no choice but to bring him to the meeting, resulting in tardiness and a battle of wills.

She supposed that she should be grateful that he had inherited her strength—it was a good sign for the future, should he decide to be a Scarer. Then again, such talents might not be needed by the time he reached adulthood…

Rosie cut the thought off before it could creep any further into her mind.

Billy seemed to have settled down _now_, of course, playing with his _Teenage Mutant Ninja Kappas_, but the steel cage playpen next to the desk still seemed like literal 'child's play.' The mother hoped that the variety of spiky toys, meant for throwing at the other trapped children, might distract him long enough for her to get the checkup done and over with—it wasn't as though she had much of a choice.

With that heaven-sent wish, the monster made her way to the back and uneasily clamped down on her natural, if violent, preference for personal space.

First a dental assistant did the Eeeks-Rays before beginning on a steady round of cleaning. Most of what the girl was saying was a buzz of ignored conversation, due to the insect-like grill. Rosie grunted periodically. Meanwhile the unnerving hum and scrape of tools caused her claws to flex automatically. Water and other cleaning materials sloshed over her lips a time or two, most of it sucked up via a small tube or spat out onto the 'bib' round her neck, and the worker continued chattering in an annoying sing-song voice, like bad radio static.

When the perky walking-stick's expression seemed to freeze Rosie knew something was wrong. She paused, stumbling over her words as she suggested that they, "wait a moment, until the dentist could get a look at the Eeeks-Rays."

Her tools were removed and the door closed with a sharp snap, leaving the Scarer in the room with nothing but her bag and empty hands. Stuck wondering, 1. Just what was wrong _this_ time, and 2. What her son was up to.

Rosie's hands lay flat across the barrel of her chest on her favorite deep purple blouse, a frill down the front in a touch of uncharacteristic femininity. Alex had given it to her on her last birthday with them together, stating that, "bruise-tones always did match her eyes." With that thought in mind, she began to settle.

The chill air made her feel lethargic, the reptilian side of her unconsciously heading for hibernation given that she'd missed her usual post-work nap due to Fear Co.'s demands Thus it was only as her consciousness began shutting down that what she'd intentionally blocked off came crawling back like bad leftovers.

"—_thorces thay that a new department hath been put into development at Monthterth Inc., replathing their 'Thcare Floor' entirely…with a 'Laugh Floor.'"_

The dinosaurian had been tangling with Billy at the time, the boy starting in on his usual game of "stick-to." Built mostly like his mother, with the exception of two long tentacles, the child liked to see what he could grab. This usually involved throwing his limbs down on any and all surfaces with a wet smack and then pulling them back off in a series of noisy pops.

Plus there was his bell—a tiny thing hung by a string around his neck, used for getting her attention. Every time Rosie's spawn moved the metal charm jingled, and that wasn't even touching upon those moments when he _deliberately_ started playing with it.

Through all this a noodly Scarer kept tossing irritated looks their direction, wincing with each burst noise, and she was fairly certain that the thing in Billy's grip used to be the toupee of the monster in front of them.

Distracted, Rosie had almost missed Slaughter's words, trying to focus on two things at once. But her coworkers' gasps had gotten her attention, and Rosie couldn't seem to find it in her to care that Billy had replaced the toupee—complete with sucker-mucous—back _on_ its original owner.

_Laughter._ Laughter was stronger than _scares?! _What kind of crazy monster had thought up _that_ bit of insanity? Even now the whole concept seemed like something out of an episode of the _Overnight Zone_.

But it didn't seem to be a joke, diagrams and numbers estimated fuzzily from the ancient projector. On one hand the news was optimistic—scare shortages would be swept away under the unstoppable force of a new power source. But on the other hand…

She didn't know how to make _anyone_ laugh—Rosie had never really been the humorous type.

The knowledge left a part of her, down beneath the scales and leathery hide, absolutely cold. And the list of assigned Laugh Partners had hung near the exit like a declaration of war.

Rosie's eyelids snapped back at the sound of the door opening again, and the shuffle of a scratchy tread.

"Why, hello there Rosemary. It certainly has been…a long time. Eight years, it looks like," familiar with the voice, the mother of one resisted the urge to growl and forced herself to make eye contact.

The crocodile dentist, Dr. Thomas D. Arrghvil, leaned over Rosie with wary familiarity, his spiked grin perched halfway into "grimace-ville." He was the same monster she'd seen upon receiving her first set of fangs, was also the one to remove her poisonous wisdom teeth, and did all the yearly checkups for the Levin children—providing they lived at home. That being said, he knew which members of her family bit and which scratched, and had been visibly delighted to learn that her child had no traditional "mouth" at all.

"Arrghvil," Rosie grumped, to which he responded by pulling further back from her notoriously vice-like grip, smiling nervously.

He swallowed, then coughed, "um, ah, anyway. So, we were just looking at your Eeeks-Rays here and I'm afraid I have some bad news."

Rosie grunted thoughtfully. What could be worse than learning that your livelihood might not be so 'lively' any longer?

"Do you know what tartar is?" when only one of her brows rose he continued, "it seems that it has built up, deep under your gums. Dinah here tried to clean as much of it as she could, but there's really only so much she can do. When allowed to fester it starts eating at your bone, weakening the placement of fangs within a monster's mouth. Particularly bad cases result in the complete loss of teeth," he held up a black and white eeeks-ray to demonstrate, "Also…I was wondering if I may have another look at your mouth. Please sit back, if you would."

She leaned into the chair's headrest, the dentist lowering it slightly to fit his shorter height, and with a start of surprise Rosie clutched the seat's arm, mouth dropping open naturally.

Directly above her three sets of eyes peered at both patient and dental equipment with curiosity, the mischievous butterball hanging from the ceiling only by his feet. Usually her son preferred his upper limbs, using them to move, grab, crawl, and pull objects, but this time they were left hanging so that he could fiddle with the lamp perched in the center of the room.

The grey monster's immediate response at seeing her mute son was to use an all-purpose hand sign, telling him to, 'stop.' Left hand tensed on her stomach, she held it so that it was out-stretched with the palm-open and facing up, while the right was open and turned to the side, slicing downward sharply against the left.

Billy blinked slowly at her and tilted his head as though he didn't understand, then proceeded to unscrew the light bulb.

Arrghvil and his assistant saw and heard nothing, intent on her open mouth as he leaned low over a clenched jaw—never mind the fact that Billy was simultaneously grasping for 'Dinah's beehive hairdo. The croc hummed lowly, and tugged slightly with his instruments while Rosie fought the desire to snap her mouth shut.

The light flickered and wavered and the single mother held out three fingers within her child's line of sight. He stilled, recognizing it for what it was, but ever-so slowly turned the bulb again.

Then she began counting down.

"Have you always had this fibroma, Miss Lev—ah, Mercado? Hmm, probably from biting the inside of your mouth accidentally, I wager. Stress, maybe?"

_Three._

"Fibromas are free-hanging skin, and in certain situations the cells which duplicate are considered pre-cancerous. For health reasons, we may have to remove the fibroma and stitch it back up again."

_Two._

"Also, it looks as though we have several cavities to deal with…four of them. Those will have to be drilled and filled. There are two options—a slime mold which involves the removal of less tooth, or a silver filling, which is less expensive."

_One._

"We'll have to numb you for the process, of course, and can remove thetartar under your gums at the same time, before it spreads further. You have some minimal bone loss at this point, no doubt due to the gap in time since you last visited, but it's better to stop it before it gets worse. We can probably take care of thefibroma then as well. Overall the process can be split into four sessions or two. Which would you prefer?"

Hanging from above, Billy finally stilled and was petulantly frowning at her, a process which involved the deep furrow of all three of his eyes. Rosie rotated her jaw as Aaarghvil removed his claws from her mouth, keeping her stern gaze on her son even as she answered the dentist.

"Two visits would be best—I only have so many days off work," she muttered, and Thomas clapped his hands sharply, eager to get her out of his office.

"Good! You can schedule those days with Lucile at the front."

Billy dropped behind the dental assistant then, knocking her hair-hive off and eliciting a shriek, before bounding to his mother.

The trip altogether cost $168, minus a slight deduction she heard Aaarghvil claim was for being a, "long-standing patient." Rosie knew the truth, and his reasons, but took what she could get with a certain amount of mustered dignity. Future visits were to be roughly set at $200 a piece.

Despite the achy tingle of her mouth Rosie grabbed a quick bite to eat for the both of them at Booger King and headed to her parent's place.

On most workdays she'd leave the "Wiggleworm" to spend the night at her family's home as she headed for the night shift, both the 'Rents' more than willing to watch the most agile example of their hearty grand-brood. Her mother, 'Ma' Kelly Levin, was nocturnal, so it mostly worked out. But by day she slept and Pops was at work at the canister factory, thus Rosie's initial daycare dilemma.

Walking into the place Rosie was ignored by Robbie—hard at working getting to the next level of, "World of Wombat,"—and Timmy—readying his next campaign for, "Mudhuts and Monsters."

Ricky just yelled at her to stop slamming the door as he was, "trying to sleep!" Joey had moved out a couple of weeks ago with his new wife, Adelaide, and Rex and Julia already had four kits and another on the way.

Setting her son down he made an immediately beeline for the television, putting in a dying copy of _Dora the Exploroar_. The knowledge that he spent most of his time at her parents' place watching TV made her sigh, but until he started school she really didn't have any choice. The new sound, however, was apparently enough to wake their mother.

"We got some o' ya mail," Ma Levin stated in a heavy accent as she knotted her bathrobe around her waist, appearing from the cavern at the end of the hall. Rosie forced herself to remain fluid and not freeze up, but the curled fists came automatically.

The color of pitch and made of angles, her mother was wickedly beautiful. With bat-like wings tucked against her tall form and goat's feet, the two women looked nothing alike. Really, the only thing Rosie shared with her dam was the shape of her eyes and ability to sing—the rest of her was a cool-toned mirror of her father-the-boulder.

When Ma didn't receive a response, she continued, "most o' em' are bills, Rosemary."

She stated this fact as though it was Rosie's fault and the Scarer had to fight the sudden urge to inform her of the illegality of reading her daughter's mail—not that she would listen.

"All Ai'm sayin' is that ya knows ya can come to us if you need any help, right?" Kelly went on, "I didn't raise no children o' mine to struggle on their own. An' if things are adding up yous can always move in with us, ain't that right?"

Across the room her brothers Robbie and Timmy exchanged a look. Timmy's room used to be Rosie's, a tiny closet of a thing for the only girl in the family. The boys had been sharing before, but with the growth spurts both had hit recently it was doubtful that they could go back to a bunk-bed situation.

Plus there was no way in Tartarus she was moving back in.

"An' I knew that yous was goin' to visit Aaarghvil tah-day so I made sure ta call 'im up an' see if he might give ya a discount, bein' a widow an' all. Us neighbors have gotta keep an eye out fer one'nother, ya know?"

The fist she'd had clenched since arriving home drew tighter in on itself, till she could feel the nails pierce the skin of her palm.

"Thanks Ma," was all that Rosie said, a low growl which her mother somehow interpreted as actual gratitude.

Kelly beamed, "an' who knows, now that he's a widower _too_ an' all-."

"_NO_, Ma."

Rosie snatched up the small pile of open mail near the door and turned away before she could see her mother pout. As the Scarer did so the door creaked open again and her father, a rocky, double-horned monster, plodded in.

When his brown eyes landed on her his tired expression lit up.

"Rose-quartz! How's my little gemstone!" not waiting for a response, arms larger than her own wrapped her up. It was a pleasant shock to her system, especially after the interaction with her mother.

For a moment—if only a very small moment—Rosie allowed herself to burrow into his chest and breathe deeply, before pulling away, "just dropping Billy off, Pops," Rosie muttered, and if anything Pete Levin's grin widened.

"Gotta love the little mischief-maker. You're off to work, then?" his chest swelled with pride.

"In a bit," she hedged, trying to hide her wince. Despite tortoise-shell glasses he'd always been observant.

"Well, then, I won't keep you."

She nodded and headed back for the door.

"Hey, Rose-quartz?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Don't forget that I love you."

Rosie Levin-Mercado stopped in her tracks, back turned toward the entryway. She never looked back but her spine straightened and air seemed to fill her lungs for the first time that day.

"I won't."

As soon as Rosie got home the first thing she did was grab a bag of Frightos Corn Chips and Blue Boo-Lade. She tended to stress-eat, so she hadn't really been surprised by Aaarghvil's news. After the in-depth cleaning she should be eating healthier but, honestly, the cavities weren't going anywhere and right now she needed the emotional support.

Then Rosie climbed into a bed that was much too big for one. She had to be up for work in another four hours.

~/~/~

AN: In my head Rosie is more of a rocky dinosaur and Johnny is more of a meat-eating bovine (mixed with an eggplant. XD). So I might take a little bit from each of those creatures when describing certain characteristics.

This was a difficult chapter to write, mostly as I had a hard time finding Rosie's, "voice." But things eventually sorted themselves out once I rearranged things a bit. There may not have seemed to be a point in describing the dental appointment, but I really wanted to focus on the stress that Rosie is under, the dynamic with her family, and how she interacts with her son. Billy's honestly a good kid, he just is young and can't sit still, but it does make life slightly more difficult for Rosie. As for her mom…yeah. What can I say? I was channeling my friend's, "Bossy Brooklyn Jewish Mother," voice…which she tends to use when I don't eat enough. *embarrassed smile*

Despite the rough beginning, as of today I do have the entire plot planned out. So as soon as I get through setting the stage things should pick up. :)

I also just re-watched the original Monsters Inc. for research purposes/fun. :3 I had forgotten how lovely it is. 3 Monsters U. is smoother, the renders more complete, but the original is still beautiful. ^^ Especially the character designs and the world-building. I am planning on a lot of MI-related in-jokes.

"Crocodile Dentist" is an actual board game. :D (I work at a toy store, by the way.) "Mudhuts and Monsters," is a game Needleman plays (as indicated by his scare card in MI), and, "World of Wombat," is my coworker's name for W.O.W. Kappa are Japanese water demons that look like turtles but have a hollow in the top of their heads filled with water, which is the source of their power. They can be mischievous or deadly. "Dora the Exploroar" "Booger King" and other bad puns are fairly self-explanatory. ;)

Song choice for this chapter would be P!nk's, "Try." For the previous chapter it would probably be Michael Buble's, "Haven't Met You Yet," although just listening to Nathan Fillion as Captain Hammer works, too.


	3. You May Be Right, I May Be Crazy

**Cheer Co.**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** When Fear Co. changes to fit the times, Johnny Worthington and Rosie Levin are two "old dogs" which have to team up to learn new tricks.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters. Or really, anything Nathan Fillion**—**related. Woe is me.

~/~/~

Chapter 3

Mercado was late.

It made his tail twitch, growl growing somewhere deep in his chest. The list of Laugh Partners was, well, laughable. But that didn't make it any less compulsory, according to Fear Co. execs. Which meant that Mercado _should_ have been here, at the assigned time. The building's gymnasium had been cleared of Scare-training equipment for the demonstration, thick pads strewn across the concrete floor. But that had ended after a time, leaving the room available for open practice—at this point most of the workers from his floor were lounging in pockets of twos and threes. It was a rough split between the day and the night shift, with a few late-comers trickling in one by one.

Johnny had arrived early, wanting to get this done and over with before heading to his own round of scaring. Trust Fear Co. to double-book its workers, trying to have its muck and eat it, too. But time was crawling past like a slug over salt and he was starting to get edgy. A few of his buddies had already come and gone, discussing new training techniques and making plans to meet outside of work so that they could continue working on their 'Cheering.'

While Worthington remained on his lonesome. He'd flipped through the flimsy instruction manuals with scoffing and incredulity, from, "The Elements of Comedy," to the chapter titled, "Clowning Around." It all sounded undignified to the Scarer, nothing to be proud of at all, he thought to himself as his lip lifted in an automatic sneer.

"This Mercado guy'd better be worth the wait," Johnny muttered, arms crossed over his blue button-up and horns lowered in an almost offensive pose. But even a threat like that was not enough to make his partner materialize. Instead two female Scarers and a fuchsia frog who was _clearly_ a Scaring assistant wandered in. The R.O.R. alumni scoffed and turned away, thoughts turning inward as he went back to his waiting.

He'd received a voicemail from his father's lawyer's secretary the day before, coming while he was on-shift and thus couldn't answer. By the time he'd been ready to reply it was after hours, the office closed and a mystery on his hands. But it had sounded serious, and it had to be—Walt Wordsworth hadn't talked to him since his father's funeral six months previous. Which, in turn, had only been a few months after John Worthington Senior had passed away—it had been a difficult year for all of them. At the time Walt had only told him that he'd let Johnny know when the Worthington family's affairs had been sorted out—then the old guy'd maintained radio silence ever since.

Johnny wasn't really worried—Wordsworth was reliable and had handled the double funerals with aplomb, especially in those first few weeks when numbness was all which he and his mother could feel. With John Sr. it had almost been expected; he was at the end of a long life of proud Scaring. But no one had anticipated "John-John" Worthington Jr. to pass away, especially while in the prime of his life. It was horribly ironic that all it had taken was one ill-fated heart attack to stop the bullish monster in his tracks.

Coworkers had been shocked, family members stunned. In fact, out of everyone involved Walt had been the one to maintain his cool. So to receive a summons from him, particularly now, made Johnny uneasy.

That feeling doubled as he felt a tap on his shoulder.

Johnny whirled around with an argument in his mouth…which promptly deflated as his mind took a split second to register the somewhat familiar face before sending both his braced arms out in front of him—one held at the level of his eyes and one over his ribcage. Brown eyes flickered in recognition of the move, before rolling once and narrowing into a scowl.

Rosie Levin, leader of Eta Hiss Hiss and his Fraternity's female opposite, stood before him with her hip cocked and a killer look in her eyes. For those few seconds he felt as though he was fifteen years younger, under the deadly gaze of a black widow out for blood—which, in many cases, involved a punishment he completely deserved. But muscle memory had him playing it cool faster than most were capable of registering—including a few teachers and supervisors.

The purple Scarer coughed and quickly shifted into a more casual pose.

"Worthington," the blast from the past muttered in greeting, a heavy sigh paired with his name and her look saying that they might as well, 'get on with it.'

But he only looked at her with confusion, "Levin," he muttered, "what are you doing here?"

The venomous female folded rocky arms, tail tapping the ground impatiently, "what do you think? I'm your 'Laughing Partner.'"

Johnny took a moment to process the remark before instant denial bubbled forth, unchecked and uncensored. Unnoticed, Levin had begun speaking, a detail he hardly noticed at first.

"…sorry I was late, by the way—my shift was longer than expected. I landed in a boarding school dorm room and—."

Johnny cut her off with a harsh laugh, instinct overriding caution, "ah-ha, no. No, _no_, I'm with some guy named 'Mercado.'"

Rosie blinked at him slowly, the way she used to do nearly fifteen years ago. As though he were an idiot, "that's me, Worthy."

"Actually, no, Mercado's a guy from the night shift who-."

"Like I said. That's me," she paired her next sigh with a growl, "now that you've suitably proved how misogynistic you remain, Johnny, can we get this over with?"

Purple eyes blinked slowly, looking her over. He was aware that it was the "epitome of rudeness," according to his mother, but…

Rocky body, thicker than it had been during their college years. The same style of glasses, if in dark blue rather than black. She'd evened out her collection of earrings to four, for symmetry's sake, and wore a yellow-green shirt the color of a bruise at the end of its life. A little older, a little more…colorful. But still the same old Rosie Levin from HSS.

No, Rosie _Mercado_, the Scarer from the night shift, whose scores had danced with his for most of their mutual careers. All these years he'd put it off as being someone older, their increased skill derived from additional experience and training. And whenever he arrived in the early morning to find their positions switched he'd taken it as a personal challenge; something to laugh at, gifting him with both incentive and drive. But now…

Suddenly his successes at Fear Co. didn't seem quite as golden, not if his 'friendly rival from the night shift,' was _Levin _of all monsters.

"So…that means we've been competing for years and…"

"And you never realized it?" something like a smile tore itself across her face, revealing jagged teeth and a forked tongue. She clearly took a large degree of amusement at his expense, having obviously made the connection _long_ ago.

Johnny responded by putting his hands on his hips—still fairly slim despite the pounds many of his peers had packed on, "I refuse to believe it—you really can't be Mercado. No way, no how."

"I got married, ya moron," a dainty ring, twined like curling vines in overlapping strands of silver, was flashed in his face.

What he said next was, of course, ill-chosen and automatic. Thus Rosie's response was also appropriately instinctive.

"What kind of masochistic monster would marry a snake like you?"

The fist which planted itself into his face came like clockwork. In the past he might've been able to roll out of it, but for all his natural agility…it _had_ been fifteen years. Worthington tumbled to the ground, flat on his tail and staring up at the ceiling. He was dimly aware of the room falling silent as piping and roof supports swam before his gaze.

Then it all went to black.

When he came to he was in the company's in-house hospital station, the uncomfortable bed he lay on cordoned off from the rest of the office but still unable to mask the goings-on from ears which rang. Having taken a few falls in his time, the Scarer merely closed his eyes once again and allowed his senses to settle.

As he finally opened them Rosie Levin was sitting on the bench next to him.

Johnny flinched away, a reaction which earned him her further derision.

"Next time I'm leaving you on the floor," she muttered, rubbing at her shoulder. He blinked. _Wait, did she just…?_

"Look, Worthington, you've wasted enough of my time today," digging into a large green bag, the grey Scarer scrounged up a folded envelope and a pen, "here's my number. If you decide you want to partner up for training as a 'Cheerer' you let me know. Otherwise I hope to never see you again, Day-Scarer."

With that parting the female monster left him with a sneer, shoving the piece of scrap paper in his face.

When Johnny finally got up, wobbly and disoriented, he found that he was half an hour late for his shift. The nurse suggested he go home and get some rest and the Scare floor was already locked down anyway, so he made his way out with a growl. The admonition to avoid driving, however, was completely ignored.

He half-mumbled with the radio an absent-minded tribute to his youth,"…_heard the __**roar**__ of the crowd, he could picture the scene…put his ear to the wall, and like a distant __**scream**__…he heard one guitar…"_

The music was powerful and energetic, a thumping call to action. But right about now all he felt was exhaustion. Stopping at a light, he looked over at the mail sitting in the passenger seat to his right. He'd thrown the lot into his car yesterday after work, too distracted to take them back out again. On top of the haphazard stack was a note he'd written on top of his phone bill—'call Wordsworth back.' The office was only open during his own working hours, so he'd planned on visiting during his next day off.

Except…that he had been forcibly made to use one of his sick days.

_You know, what the heck._

Turning back the way he'd come, Johnny Worthington III made his way to _Wordsworth, Monsterson, Fangman & Tangle, Attorneys at Law._

~/~/~

The monster before him had been his father's solicitor and his grandfather's before him. A mass of long tentacles sprouting from what he assumed was a round body, with a single eyestalk rising above the rest to give him a serious glance. When Wordsworth spoke it was from a mouth unseen, solemn even as each of his many 'hands' were hard at work with a variety of documents. The limbs were graceful despite his years, the liver-spotted texture and pale, rusty coloring only making him seem more distinguished.

Sitting before the stately creature Johnny couldn't help but feel like a child again, playing at being an adult.

"You're probably wondering why I called for you," Wordsworth murmured lowly, his voice coming from an area significantly lower than his eye stalk.

Purple eyes blinked, wondering how he would respond if he shot back a, 'well, of _course_ I was wondering.' But he played it off, leaning back in the creaky wooden chair with his outstretched legs crossed and hands clasped casually. While growing up Walt had always seemed intimidating—a faceless presence, whose expressions he could never see. Additionally, whenever the lawyer was around Johnny's father never seemed to have any time for him, so there was that added disquiet.

Now he was too busy trying to channel his father's persona to let the anxiety come through. It seemed odd, however, how short Wordsworth actually was—Johnny seemed to remember him having more presence and stature.

The tangle of limbs blinked slowly, as though waiting for a response.

Johnny coughed belatedly and nodded, grateful that his fur covered the heat which sank into his cheeks.

Walt's eye stalk rolled drolly but soon turned back to the matter at hand. All of his tentacles but one stilled as he handed the young Worthington a folder, "this is a brief overview of your father's accounts. As you may notice, he was bringing quite a bit in before he passed away."

Johnny perused the first page at Wordsworth's motioning, and it was true—even near retirement "John-John" Worthington had made a decent bundle. But there were numerous deductions pulling from the wage, so that the end result was only a fraction of his total work efforts.

He frowned and blinked at the page, not quite processing what he was seeing, "this, uh, um. Is this completely accurate? 'Cause it seems a little…"

"Off?" Wordsworth continued for him, "the fact is, your father has been paying off a series of gambling debts for several years now—."

"_What?!_" Johnny bellowed. That made no sense whatsoever! His father had never entered into a gambling hall or casino in his life, and had even reprimanded Johnny those few times he'd caught on to his son's poker nights, "my father would never—!"

"Gamble? Well, you're right," Walt cut him off, "the fact is, they're not his—they're your grandfather's."

Well, _that_ seemed all the more ludicrous, "pshaw, you've _got_ to be kidding me."

"I'm not," the legal representative deadpanned, "they began the year your grandmother died and continued until his senility. John-John was putting you through your Sophomore year at the time and so kept it on the down-low. Shirley still has no idea of what occurred at all, and your father wanted it kept that way. He had hoped to deal with the situation quietly, with dignity, so that it would never come to your attention or besmirch your view of your grandfather. However…"

He'd died, with a huge debt to his name.

"Anyway, since the funeral we at W.M.F.T. have been working tentacle over tail to sort things out," for once the rusty pile really did look rusty and tired, rather than aloof, "John-John left most everything to you, so we would have to get permission first before selling those. Plus there's his life insurance. But the rest of his assets are already being used as a form of payment—your father specifically left instructions to do so as it was within our means, never mind the fact that he thought he still had years ahead of him. But after all that there's still a decent chunk of debt to be taken care of and, well, if it's not paid off…then you may lose the manor."

Johnny was left gaping, horror etching out a hole in the middle of his chest cavity. One day he was footloose and fancy free. The next everything he relied on—his foundation; the things which defined his sense of self—was a sham.

And this time he couldn't even blame it on Levin.

It was true that he liked his life the way that it was—his independence, his reputation and all that came with it. There were also the things which he'd gained by way of hard work and personal recognition. His car practically purred, chrome and gold, and his apartment was a wonder of white and all the newest appliances. It was the most monsterly of man-caves, perfect for poker night, and his previous girlfriends had had nothing but compliments for the plush furniture, gorgeous view, and booming sound system.

But this…somehow this was more important than that. The family estate was at stake, and his mother was about to become homeless.

"What would you like to do, Mr. Worthington?" Wordsworth asked quietly and Johnny realized with a start that this was the first time he had ever been called by his family name by the attorney. It had always been, 'young man,' 'my boy,' or 'Johnny-boy.' Then again, this was also the first time he had been sole owner of the name—his father had only ever had sisters.

Swallowing that thought the monster leaned forward in his chair, heaviness seemingly falling upon his shoulders, "inform my mother…that I will be moving back in. So that she's not alone during her time of grief."

The spaghetti monster nodded—the lie would come more readily from a neutral party.

"If you have a copy of my father's life insurance policy then I'd like to take a look at it. And also a copy of what materials I've inherited…"

"Understood."

"I'll have to go over everything first, but as for my g-grandfather's debts…I'll see what I can do."

"Yes, Mr. Worthington."

~/~/~

**AN:** Oh! I forgot to recognize my Anon reviewers in the last chapter! Please forgive me. –blushes furiously-

**SunnySideUp:** Thank you so much for the lovely review! I'm glad that you're enjoying it, and I hope that you also had fun with this chapter (since we now have an added element of drama). ;D

**Aisha:** Thank you so very much! And you're right, it's definitely going to be interesting with the switch. :S Thanks for giving the story a chance, even if it's not your first choice, shipping-wise. And I was actually wondering about Javier but couldn't find any clear answers without watching the film again. XD I'll try and switch it to someone more suitable once I'm certain which characters actually work at Fear Co. ;-) Until then, thanks for the head's up! :D

Chapter 2 was like getting teeth pulled (Ha ha! XD), but this one was an absolute breeze. I don't know what it is, but writing Johnny is much easier than writing Rosie. He's so much less…complicated than…and simple to work with…and…

You know what, I'm leaving that statement right there. XD

Just know that writing their interaction was surprisingly fun, and I look forward to doing so again.

The song on the radio is actually, "Jukebox Hero," by Foreigner and is one of my favorites. :3

I know next to nothing about inheritance law and what lawyers/attorneys/legal counsel can do. So if there's anything wrong…willful suspension of disbelief! –disappears in a cloud of smoke-

Song choice for this chapter is Billy Joel's, "You May Be Right." Although it really describes their college experience more than their Fear Co. one… Oh, and, "Johnny & Mary," by Robert Palmer is probably an overall description of their relationship. ^^;


	4. Another Pill to Swallow

**Cheer Co.**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** When Fear Co. changes to fit the times, Johnny Worthington and Rosie Levin are two "old dogs" which have to team up to learn new tricks.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters. Or really, anything Nathan Fillion**—**related. Woe is me.

~/~/~

Chapter 4

Worthington had eventually called. Well, _texted._ Fifteen minutes before her shift started at midnight. He'd wanted to decide on a day to begin their work as 'Cheerers' and Rosie agreed—it needed to be taken care of, even if it was with _him_.

Honestly, over the years she hadn't held _that_ much against him. The few times they'd bumped into one another since college he hadn't seemed to even _see_ her much less remember their connection. In fact, those small events had resulted more than once in the gentlemanly opening of a door as she left work while he was coming in. Once he'd even apologized upon running into her, so there was really nothing to take offense to. And time and life experience healed most (if not all) wounds, so their college rivalry seemed a thing of the past. Especially with F.C.'s Scaring numbers resting upon their mutual backs—like legs on a table, two elements with the same purpose but kept separated.

Rosie had thought that in a way they were actually working 'together'…until she realized that Johnny had absolutely no hissing idea that 'R. Mercado' was her.

She'd been bemused at his dismay, taking humor from the situation as she watched his pride take a tumble rather than being offended at his obliviousness.

Until Worthington went and insulted Alex.

Her reaction had been instinctive but heart-felt, and all that bottled anger from college seemed to rise up and blast into him like hurricane at full tilt. The feelings which erupted reminded Rosie of the time R.O.R. had toilet-papered the H.S.S. Sorority dorm. And tucked rotten eggs into their beds (which had actually been pretty tasty). _And_ when they'd painted all their exterior walls pink.

It had taken several days to get it back to its traditional light blue, done in shifts between each of the girls' classes.

The memory which was most vivid, shined up by multiple visitations, was what he'd done Rosie's Freshman year. During Rush Week Worthington, then a Sophomore, had been assigned to recruiting. With his braces newly off Johnny had had one stunner of a smile and B. Uppercrust, R.O.R. head and Worthy's 'mentor' of sorts, had seen its potential. Using the smarmy charm he'd been developing the year before, Johnny had managed to finagle the best spot for the Roar Omega Roar table—right next to the Python Nu Kappa girls.

The ploy for luring recruits in that year had been in proving how R.O.R. members, "always got the girl." It had worked and the intellectual insects had been drawn in like woolly-mammoth-moths to flame.

Until _she_ walked up. Kelly Levin ne' Sanders had been a card-carrying member of P.N.K. and decided to call ahead in order to inform the girls of her daughter's arrival. It was fairly standard, Rosie learned later, for new students to be welcomed into their parent's house by way of something called a, "Legacy."

Rosie had tried to tell her Ma off, rightfully anticipating the worst, but those early years she'd been plagued with stony pock-marks and thick coke-bottle glasses. The confidence hadn't come until after she'd started earning a rep and grown a couple of inches taller—high enough to reach her father's chest and loom over her mother. At eighteen and an uncertain Freshman, Rosie hadn't been unable to put a dent in her Ma's enthusiasm.

Thus during her first rush she'd had no choice but to at least _approach_ the P.N.K. table, or risk her mother's eternal censure. Sensing motion, Worthington turned to face the oncoming student.

"Why, hello there, Miss, you-," Johnny's face went from languid to an outright grimace in seconds flat, jaw dropped and wide eyes twitching. He tried to save face for a moment, coughing into his hand, and Rosie had been about to let it go, at the very least. Then he'd opened his mouth again.

"Are you sure you're headed for the right Sorority, Sweetheart? I'm fairly certain that there's someone out there which might better appreciate your…qualifications."

She'd punched him on the spot, a moment which decided her future.

Nadine Hartman, a witness to the fight, had welcomed her into H.S.S. faster than she could say, 'Black's my favorite color.' From there Rosie had nurtured her disdain for Worthington with an eager attentiveness, like a garden of Nightshade. In a way it was Johnny's actions which started her on the route of who she was to become—not that she would ever admit as much.

But that was_ years_ ago.

Now somehow he'd snuck back into her professional life, if not her personal one, and she was working to force down old instincts.

Rosie ran a rough hand over her face and groaned. They'd aimed to meet after he got off at four p.m. By that point she would be awake enough to handle him and wouldn't need to get ready for her own shift quite yet. Still, she was reluctant to go.

The Scarer had explained the situation to her father and he'd wheedled Ma into letting Billy stay over during the day. Which mostly meant that the responsibility for his care would hop from sibling to sibling. Their method for babysitting, she'd discovered, was in sitting him down in front television all day long. The single mother hated to put her son in that position, but there wasn't much of a choice—working the night shift always complicated things. The one benefit was that for the first time in ages she had a few spare moments to herself, sans responsibility.

It was almost eery. But the kind of eeriness which was pleasant and addicting.

Rosie marveled at the quiet, eating "breakfast" by herself and dressing slowly. She only put one pair of earrings in this time, a set of diamond studs which wouldn't catch on anything as they trained. Her smart vest was painfully blue, like a black eye. And she was kind of hoping that it would match _his_ black eye, considering where her fist had landed.

Then she settled down with a horror novel and waited until the time she needed to leave. Still Rosie couldn't seem to focus, eyes flitting around the room.

The loft apartment glowed with the hour, the uneven peach of the walls dipping like waves in the afternoon light. It was Alex's favorite time to paint, when the saturated colors of the room became hazy like a dream.

They'd collected a decent amount of stuff over the years together, as eclectic as they were worn in. A few pieces were from Ickea, small items she'd picked up as a new Scarer, but the rest were all salvaged. Her husband had had a tendency to 'save' objects from their own mediocrity and give them, 'new life.' Scraping down and painting over a table and chair set had been their first "couple" activity together, back when they were only dating, while the entertainment center and bookshelf had come later. Similar reminders glowed in a variety of colors all around her apartment.

Some, however, were left bare after sanding them down, the fresh wood gleaning too beautifully to be hidden. These were her favorite, she'd learned over the years.

Paintings, framed and unframed, hung from the walls while unfinished pieces sat leaning up against the edges of the space. When walking from room to room Rosie avoided each one neatly, familiar with their locations after a year of inattention.

But what could she do?—It had been Alex's habit to leave artwork out until it was finished, a process which sometimes took months (hence the uneven color of her living room walls). The grey monster had gotten in the habit of ignoring them until they were finalized, thus most continued where they'd been left a year hence, collecting dust.

Across from her in the kitchen the Venus fly trap bouquet that she'd caught at Joey and Adelaide's wedding was already wilting. Rosie had been horrified upon having it launched at her, the macabre mockery of tradition cutting straight to her core, but now it was just a dry twist of carnivorous plant-life.

Stomping over now, the monster yanked the bundle of 'flowers' and thistles from its vase in order to throw it away but hesitated—setting it aside for drying instead. The pods were great in stew, and while the irony wasn't lost on her she wasn't about to waste food.

After that, however, there were no other tasks. Rosie already turned on the dishwasher after arriving home from work, the machine running while she crashed post-work, the laundry was all done, and there were no messes to clean up. The single mother was dutifully ignoring the pile of bills on the table and she didn't really have the money to get any groceries until her next pay day.

With nothing left to do…it was time to leave.

Brown eyes watched the road without really seeing it, her rusty pickup rattling and popping as the radio played something shriekingly melancholy. The old thing had three seats, two with over the shoulder seatbelts and the middle with a lap belt. It used to be that she and Alex would sit with Billy between them, his car seat maneuvered into place with some difficulty. But now her son was her only companion, leaving the middle section bare after having scooted his place over.

It reminded her of the chairs they'd refurbished together—a set of two, with one perpetually empty.

Billy seemed to fill up her days, and work overshadowed the rest, so that more often than not she was too busy or too tired to feel lonely. But every now and again it crept up on her, like her own personal Scarer. On top of all that her previous ire at Fear Co.'s announcement was slowly simmering into something like despair.

Their _overlords_ had given then a time limit: two months in which to train before they were to be tested once more, as though they were all green recruits. It reminded her of when a recent law had passed requiring that those with driver's licenses for thirty years or more take the driver's test again, for safety reasons. At the time it resulted in more crashes as the test-takers, in their anxiety, forgot everything they knew.

After that point there would be a series of reassignments. There were a handful of Scarers that she saw doing just fine, individuals known for adapting to any situation (admittedly within the scenario of Scaring rather than "Cheering," but still…). However, she was an "old cerberus," so to speak. Rosie had been taught in the old methods and knew what her strengths were—anticipation, subtly and resultant fierceness.

Things like hissing in a child's ear just as it was beginning to think that it was completely alone, deliberately stepping on creaky floorboards but remaining unseen, and roaring just as a child did a double-take in the dark.

What did she know about making children laugh?

Pulling into the parking lot, Levin-Mercado entered the building with a heavy sigh. It was strange to be at Fear Co. during the day, scores of workers heading off toward different tunnels and elevator chutes. Elliot at the desk was answering several phone calls at a time with his various arms and multiple ears, transferring them one by one without pause. He did, however, blink at Rosie as she came up. She tried to fight off the discomfort as she shrugged in the direction of the rec room.

"Hey, El. I'm here for training."

He blinked sympathetically and motioned her on. Meanwhile her anxiety was building up step by unhelpful step. Just re-entering the situation post-confrontation was making her heart race unpleasantly, stomach clenched and muscles stiff. On top of all that, Rosie's spikes were tingling, standing on end from the top of her spine right down to her tail. When first meeting Johnny she'd marched from her station with determination, wanting to get their training done and over with. After the situation escalated she'd left with rage (then later irritation) pumping through her veins.

Now she was in no mood to continue their barbed spat. As a younger monster she might have desired a continuation but right now…she was tired. Tired and anxious. Rosie deliberately uncurled the fists her hands had already made, making a point of stretching them until they no longer looked like weapons (though they were twitching every now and again).

Then the Scarer took a deep breath, reminded herself that she wasn't afraid of anything—especially _Worthington_ of all monsters—and entered the padded room.

It was a bit anticlimactic, actually. Two other pairs were working together, muffled conversation and awkward attempts at humor falling flat. Johnny lounged on a metal folding chair, arms locked and a frown heavy upon brows which were usually lit and expressive. He'd put on another one of those button-ups, which she had to admit were more flattering than the sweaters he used to wear, and while still athletic-looking he wasn't quite as streamlined as he'd been in college. Rosie continued to examine him and was startled to note that there were shots of silver running through his fur. They were subtle, mostly found at his temples and along his jaws—meaning that they were practically unnoticeable when he was running his gob and acting the idiot.

This was the first time she'd been able to actively observe him in, well, years. And he'd gotten older—they both had. It was just startling to sync who he'd been and who he was now and see actual differences.

Her "partner" shifted in his seat, face coming into view, and despite the situation Rosie couldn't stop her smirk—she'd been right about the color of her vest, it did match his eye perfectly.

The thought was more than enough to conquer any last bit of uncertainty.

She pounded her way over to where Worthington was sitting, and once he was alerted to her presence he straightened in the chair calmly, if warily.

"Levin," the guy said in greeting.

She hissed, "_Mercado_. It's Mercado, Worthington."

"Right," he muttered with only half of his usual aplomb. She was startled by the lackluster response, but explained it away as being a side-effect of their mutual apathy for the task.

When he remained sitting Rosie moved to the folding table, picking up the materials they needed and coming back. His booklet was tossed into his lap but he hardly seemed to look at it.

"'_The Elements of Comedy,'_" Rosie read out loud and into the empty air, "_or the act of making people laugh. An introduction._"

When Worthington failed to stir she continued on in silence. The first chapter was titled, 'Know Your Audience,' and she was reminded of their early days in the Scare program at M.U. Where half the battle was in knowing what might scare a kid and what would instead made them cry or whimper or just hide under their sheets. This aspect was familiar and so she moved on.

There was a basic organization to the instruction manual, things like what makes jokes funny and why physical comedy elicits uninhibited painless laughter. Also, the 'pregnant pause.'

What made a pause pregnant, she wondered? Also, the existence of 'painful' laughter was baffling to her, but then again they'd been taught from an early age that children were lethal so she supposed it was possible.

The question nearly left her lips, accustomed as Rosie was to speaking to Billy and receiving a rudimentary reply via hand signs. But when she looked up it was to see Johnny leaning forward, arms propped on his knees as he stared into space, pamphlet clenched in his claws.

Rosie sighed.

"Look, Worthy, I know that neither of us have our heart in…this," she waved her hand down at the pages, "but this is our job, changes and all. So we need to both take it seriously. Scaring involves the Scarer _and_ Assistant; it's never just one monster alone."

He groaned slightly, rising from his crouch as he ran a hand over his maw roughly, "you're right, of course. Sorry. I'll…focus. Two to tango, duets and all that. I just...have a lot on my plate, is all."

"Really?" she asked with folded arms and a bland expression, only half curious.

Her response seemed to surprise him, not expecting any interest at all. With hands on his hips, Johnny barked out a laugh, "yep. Levin, while we can _both_ agree that you don't know me and I obviously don't know you," he touched his eye carefully, "it's safe to say that what I'm dealing with even _you_ might find difficult."

Instinct told her what she should do—blow him off, say 'whatever,' and get on with it. But some element of his words stopped her—eliciting a quizzical stare as Rosie puzzled at why the comment stood out.

His tone. Johnny was being droll, true, but he was also being serious. Whatever was on his mind was severe enough that his trademark posturing was nowhere to be seen, replaced by something that was decidedly more…adult. Solemn. Dry and centered in an unexpected reality.

What could have possibly occurred in two days time to make Worthington uncertain about the future?

"It's money, isn't it?" the former member of H.S.S., known for intelligence while on her feet, said in a sudden epiphany. Money, the root of much of his confidence, was probably the one thing which might actually make him lose his cool. Besides, well, being outshone. The female monster was incredulous, "you can't honestly tell me that the great Worthington heir is worried about rent?"

She'd said the comment in astonishment but somehow a few barbs had been thrown into the mix. The look he gave her was so filled with frustration and rage that she took a step back. Soon, however, Johnny managed to mask the emotion with something more neutral. Rosie even almost regretted bringing it up. Until…

"You wouldn't understand."

The defeated tone would have been worrying, had he not been so talented at pissing her off.

Eyes slitted and ire rising, she stated blandly, "you mean like rent I can't afford, medical and dental costs, car repairs, groceries, a phone bill, child care-."

"Yeah, but you've got your husband to help—"

"—and _funeral costs?!_"

She hadn't meant to say that, she really hadn't. Especially as it wasn't as though she was angry at Alex for any of what had followed his passing. Everything she'd dealt with lately was circumstantial. She'd just…wanted Johnny to _shut up_ and—

Well, it worked.

He was gaping at her as though that was the only thing Rosie could have said to shock him out of his self-pity.

"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, a false platitude presented by those who didn't know what else to say. She'd heard the phrase more times than she liked to recall.

Rosie sighed heavily, rubbing at her forehead, "look, its fine. Don't mention it."

"No, really, I—."

"I said _don't mention it," _the command came as an outright hiss andthere went their moment of calm, right out the window. Johnny was back to looking at the floor. Rosie stared at the booklet for several minutes as letters and graphs swam before brown eyes. When they failed to settle she growled slightly, snatching the pamphlet from him, tossing them on to his chair, and writing the "partnership" off as a lost cause.

She hardly noted the shift in his expression, brows furrowed in thought and spine slowly straightening. The former head of R.O.R. began pacing slightly, tapping his chin in though. Only when Johnny's hand slapped his shirt pocket as though it held all the answers did the other Scarer look at him, a look of irritation tugging at her features as she pulled the strap of her purse tighter.

Worthington was staring at her with sudden determination—as though struck with a split-second, bite-the-bullet kind of idea.

"Levin—."

"_Mercado_," she corrected automatically, ready to turn away.

"Whatever. Anyway, the other day you accidentally forgot something," he held up the envelope she'd thrown at him, complete with phone number.

Rosie scowled, "I'm pretty sure that wasn't an accident, Worthington."

"I can see how you might think that," he began, like a magician introducing a new trick, "however when I was putting in your cell I realized what _this_ was," Johnny flipped the folded paper open.

She blanched.

He held in his grip one of her bills, one she'd doubled over and shoved into her bag after having left her family's place a few days ago. It was for a particularly painful car repair she'd been trying not to think about. The single mother reached for it instinctively, mortification creating a grimace. But Worthington tugged himself backwards with a look of intelligent appraisal in his eyes, now that he'd gotten her attention.

"I think I recall your mention that you were having some financial difficulty ," he smiled with sudden and renewed confidence, as though his previous melancholy was nonexistent. But she preferred his previous harsh honesty to this…this plasticity. In comparing the two Johnny now seemed sly and smarmy, like a used monster truck salesman. It was the Worthington that she used to know, "what would you say if I told you that I'm renting out a place and that the rent is cheap?"

Struck, Rosie jerked backward instinctually, her bag's handle crumpling in her hands. She tried to mask the response, but Worthington had caught on to it with a grin of jagged teeth.

But the Rosie who'd been head of H.S.S. was dormant no longer, particularly after his last stunt.

"Not on your life, Worthington," she snatched the envelope back with a growl and began to stride away. But he wasn't done.

"There's babysitting provided," he proffered, following her, "you'd be able to switch over to the day shift."

"I like the night shift—there's no schmucks to deal with," her response was a series of growls.

"Utilities are included in the rent. And groceries. It's already furnished, too!" he added the last in a desperate tone, almost reaching out to stop her. Rosie glared at him as though daring him to try it and then tore away.

"Buzz off, Johnny!" she nearly roared. Those few other monsters in the room might have stopped to stare at them, but she hardly noticed. After all, it was just a repeat of their last gossip-inducing interaction.

Putting on a burst of speed, the monster failed to see his shoulders slump inward as yet another idea went down the drain. But minutes later he picked himself up again—there were always other alternatives.

~/~/~

AN: This was a really long chapter. :S Sorry about that. It was either two short disconnected chapters, or one long one. (Plus there are probably a dozen different problems with this. Arrgh.)

And yay! The "living under the same roof," trope, brought to you by Shahrezad1. –sarcastic, cheesy grin- It'll be just like college again! (Which of course, turned out _beautifully_.) That being said, they need some one-on-one time, for reasons and plot and reasons. Also I really, really, really want to introduce Shirley James Worthington. :D

**Fear Co. night shifts:**

I've been trying in many ways to portray Rosie's night shifts as being similar to mine one Christmas—where working overnights works best with the fact that her son is awake during the day but still makes life in general rather difficult.

**Johnny's shift:** 8 a.m.-4 p.m.

**The Swing Shift:** 4 p.m.-12 a.m.

**Rosie's shift:** 12 a.m.-8 a.m. **Rosie naps from:** 9 a.m.-12 p.m., and again from 8 p.m.-11 p.m.

**Billy is with his grandparents from:** 7:30 p.m.-8:30 a.m.

The stuff about Rush Week and all that jazz is a combination of my own college experiences and scenes from college-based movies. XD Yup. Very credible. *laughs* The whole, "pock-marked with coke-bottle glasses," was a description of me as a Freshman. Booya. I made Rosie a year younger than Johnny because it felt right, and I know that she's the head of "HSS," in MU but I figured that regardless of being a Junior at the time they voted her in…twice. Hey, it made sense in my head. Shut it.

Song choice for this chapter is: "Mr. Know It All," by Kelly Clarkson. For reasons…


	5. Sonny, Move Out To the Country

**Cheer Co.**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** When Fear Co. changes to fit the times, Johnny Worthington and Rosie Levin are two "old dogs" which have to team up to learn new tricks.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters. Or really, anything Nathan Fillion**—**related. Woe is me.

~/~/~

Chapter 5

He'd sold his car. It had been easy enough—Chet had been eyeing the thing for months now. Then most of his furniture had gone on CrocsList while the few pieces he'd decided to keep were readied for removal. Johnny had even bitten the bullet, taking the penalty for ending his lease early, and after reporting back to the family lawyer he'd been the proud recipient of surprisingly respectful look via Wordsworth—the first he'd ever received from the man.

After that he'd spent day in and day out packing and brainstorming. The idea that he'd blurted to Mercado had been the desperate end result of too much worrying and not enough sleep, but it did have merit. Worthington had been taking a mental tally of all the possible ways they could support themselves—including selling heirlooms and parceling out the estate—when Rosie began her rant. The idea to lease the manse's rooms had hit him out of the blue, struck by inspiration as soon as rent was mentioned.

He'd been reminded of his early years after college, when Johnny was determined to make his own way without the help of his parents. As a young post-grad, wiping down tables for four months till the interview with Fear Co. came, Worthington leased out a room in someone's basement. The family lived upstairs while he and two other guys shared the "apartment," below. At first it had seemed like a good idea—just an extension of his time as a member of R.O.R. But that mentality changed soon enough. He hadn't been in the situation for long, but it had been enough to drive home the fact that poor students were willing to live anywhere as long as it was affordable. Even if it meant tolerating people you loathed, and filling up another family's rooms.

The manse was nothing if not made up of empty rooms.

So the offer he'd made to Levin really did have value, even if it had been ludicrous to suggest it to _her_ of all monsters. Johnny had felt a mixture of frustration and relief when she turned him down, as he'd only remembered after the fact that he would _also_ be living there. He could only imagine how that would have gone over, with the two of them under the same roof and his mother caught in the crossfire. Knowing Rosie he wouldn't be surprised at all if she secretly breathed fire, either, she-dragon that she was.

Renting out rooms seemed to be the perfect answer to his problem with no need to sell away any of the family's hoard. The only problem being, well, the house's current resident.

Wordsworth had done his part in letting Shirley James Worthington know that Johnny would be moving in, a choice she welcomed, but it had it had been up to the son to implement his new idea. He'd told his mother about the possibility of someone else moving in over a dinner he'd made himself…well, sort of. More like he'd mentioned that a friend-slash-coworker might be borrowing a room or two while they worked on retraining so as to battle Scare shortages. The fact that they'd actually be working on comedy wasn't mentioned, the information still under wraps, nor the fact that he would be charging said individual _rent_.

As it was, there'd been an article in the paper about controversial scaring methods, a topic all Scaring companies refused to confirm or deny. It was a sensational piece, full of Sci-Fi predictions and conspiracy theories, but he'd ripped out the page anyway, balling it up and and dumping it in the trash before his mother came down to breakfast. The article itself had been absolutely drivel, hardly believable. But there was enough truth to the concept that he was left feeling uncomfortable and uneasy.

It was better off that Shirley didn't know about any of that, as she didn't need unnecessary anxiety thrown on top of her grief. Instead she should remain blissfully unaware of his grandfather's actions, content to spend her days doing volunteer work for the community at large, worry-free.

Before all that could happen, however, he had to find someone willing to participate in his scheme. The house was certainly large enough for more than a few lodgers.

A few buddies from work had offered to help move his stuff, loaning him a truck for the process, and he was planning on approaching them first. They had arrived in ones and twos, the appearance of Chet in his own vehicle eliciting surprise while Johnny tried not to grind his teeth _too_ hard. But all were eager and interested to get things started, thus the process of transferring his belongings from his fifth-floor apartment to his childhood home began.

"Hey, buddy," Johnny greeted his best friend as they entered the truck together. Several heads taller than either of them and painted a deep green, it easily fit the title of "monster truck," perfect for transferring objects like his sound system and flood of boxes. As it was, between the different vehicles he hadn't been forced to rent a U-Hurl, which was one less cost he had to bear, "how's the old M.I. treating you?"

The fact that Javier had gotten into Monsters Incorporated and Johnny hadn't was once a sore point between them. But they'd never been able to remain angry at one another for long.

Well, Rios didn't. Johnny seemed to be a professional at maintaining gripes, but sense—and a stern lecture from his mother a few years in—had finally shaken the irrational emotion free. It helped that his father grudgingly respected F.C., despite it being, "second best."

Now the both of them could chuckle over their mutual circumstances.

"Si, all is well," Rios stated as they clipped their belts in and he shifted out of park.

The answer was calm, collected, but somehow Johnny was left edgy. He wanted to ask several things—mostly about how Monster's Inc.'s Scare Floor was changing and if it was as much of a hassle as what they were dealing with.

But he didn't. After all, he had a purpose today and he might as well get down to it.

"Good to hear, good to hear. So! How's life treating you outside of work?"

"Esta bien," the insect said again, looking at Johnny with some bemusement this time as he switched lanes, several of his eyes keeping track of the items in the bed of his truck, "why do you ask?"

The former head of R.O.R. coughed and shifted in his seat, discomfort an unfamiliar feeling. For all that he had charisma in spades, he wasn't accustomed to asking for help from anyone, even old pals. Which despite his plans that's essentially what he was doing—relying on the assistance of others. If asked he would be honest—he needed the money. But honesty sat strangely on him, like an ill-fitting tux.

"Ah, no reason."

"Then why are you bouncing your leg up and down, Juanito?" Javier asked without taking his eyes from the road, "usted parece nervioso."

"I'm not nervous," Johnny responded flippantly and unthinkingly, "I'm stressed."

His old 'brother' glanced at him sharply, "in that case, how is _your_ life faring, hombre?"

The Scarer opened his mouth to expel a bit of bluster, but nothing came out. Purple lips flapped for a few seconds before a weak laugh escaped, sounding panicked and false.

Javier didn't comment, but nodded his head as though saying, "I see."

Eventually Johnny spoke, tones low with the solemnity he'd been trying to avoid, "gra-the fam's got debts, Javi."

"Ah, entiendo completamente Juanito. I most definitely understand," streets swam by in a blur, the mixture of neighborhoods and trees making way for larger plots and buildings of a grander scale and size. The Worthington Manse was in the middle of it all, next to an expanse of forestry and a mid-sized creek.

In the past the family used to own miles around, but they'd sold much of the land when it became evident that there was a larger fortune in Scaring than in agriculture. As it was, they still had an orchard and the park itself, but there were no servants except for a housekeeper, general maid who came by once a week, and a gardener. If his ploy failed then they wouldn't be needing them, either.

The concept of the Worthingtons having money problems really was laughable, given where he came from, so while still irritated part of him couldn't hold Rosie's scoffing against her. But the threat of loss was very real, and for all that his childhood home was an outdated example of monster posturing, in many cases an eyesore and an ancient death trap, it was his home and he didn't want to lose it.

Javier withheld judgment on all accounts, waiting to hear him out.

Johnny took in a deep breath, "look, you probably think that it's kind of, ah, strange that I'm moving back in to the ancestral home."

His friend nodded, "I was surprised."

"I mean, it's just temporary until everything gets under control. And, um, until then…I'm going to need a roommate," he blurted out the word as though it was human food, acidic and poisonous, before hurrying on, "not that we'd be sharing a room, per se. I mean, the house is huge, so…"

The purple monster began trailing off as whatever speech he'd been planning officially crashed and burned, ending it all with a rather uncomfortable grimace. When he did finally look up Javier was watching him expressionlessly before giving in to a sigh.

"I know what you're going to ask, and I have to say no, Juanito," Javier had responded with a shake of his head, Johnny's first choice of the bunch, "I can't, you see…you know how you asked how my life is going? Well, I'm prometido, engaged. If you had asked six months ago then I would have agreed, but as it is…we are looking for an apartamento. Sorry, hombre."

Worthington swallowed hard before forcing himself to smile, clapped his companion on the shoulder in a falsely cheerful sign of solidarity, "no worries, Javier. And congrats all around."

The insect-like monster allowed himself a bashfully happy sort of smile, with truer emotion than any Johnny had seen him sport, and began the long drive up to the house's entryway. Both remained silent until exiting, not needing to say a thing. But finally Rios made his way over to Worthington with a sympathetic smile.

"Johnny, I can't help you but I wish you well. Buena suerte," Javier clasped his shoulder before marching over to start unloading his truck.

Upon arriving at the Worthington Manor, the cars emptying themselves of their contents, both living and boxed, Shirley Worthington came out to greet everyone.

He'd heard of parents actually being angry and irritated when their children returned to the nest, but "Mrs. W.," had been both surprised and delighted. She loved guests and adored her only child even more, so it was with hearty enthusiasm that she began handing out slushed tea and peanut-bitter cookies while sweetly calling his friends and coworkers, "honey," and, "darlin'."

Part of him felt like the teenager he'd once been—embarrassed by his mother's cloying sweetness and effervescent personality. The other half of him felt bemused, comforted even—his Mom was as she'd ever been, loving and effusive in her homecoming welcome, and he wouldn't have her any other way.

As the boxes and furniture made their slow path into the building and up to the second floor, he observed his companions silently. A few of his pals were bemused by his mother's eccentricities but others were clearly weirded out by both her and the situation itself—Eddie Falk, mostly, and Benjamin De La Vega. It made sense, in a way. The thought of the confident, independent Johnny Worthington moving back in with his mother at this point in his life was as farfetched an idea as they came. Usually at their age they were either living it up as bachelors or starting a family. Yet there he was, heading back to home base.

Javier, Chet, and Chip handled the interactions easily, familiar with Mrs. W. after having spent a few college summers at the Worthington estate, but Reggie unfortunately hadn't been able to make it as he'd had an orchestral practice scheduled for the same time. Regardless, it was these, his closest friends and the few that he'd kept in contact with post-college, whom he spoke with first.

It was just his luck that their responses were similar to Javier's.

Chip was already married, so that was a no-go, Nate Williams promised to think about it, and Paul Klause wasn't interested. As for Eddie and Ben, both had expressed enough disdain towards his mother that Johnny didn't think the offer would go over well if he made it—nor did he _want it to_. The defensive, monstrous side of himself was chewing at the bit after their callous reception of Shirley, and coworkers or no the sooner they left the better.

Chet was the most understanding of Johnny's move, for obvious reasons.

"Oh, I can _definitely_ underthtand you wanting to move back in your mom. I mean, my mom and I get along great! And thee's gonna totally love going on roadtripth with me in your car. I mean, _my_ new car," the one-eyed crab beamed at him and he tried not to visibly wince.

"That's great, Chet. I hope you take good care of her," the purple monster said with false bravado. Minutes later his old R.O.R. buddy broke a vase belonging to his grandmother and tripped down a series of stairs, pulling up one edge of the ancient burgundy carpet.

_Selling the car was for a good cause_, Johnny reminded himself in a repeated mantra. As for having Chet as a roommie—well, he'd dodged that bullet.

The Worthington heir forced his aggrieved look into something more pleasant as his mother tugged on his sleeve. Smaller than he and golden-furred with an impressive rack of antlers, upon which she liked to drape various rings and jingling things he couldn't even begin to name, she gazed up at him with deep purple eyes.

"Johnny, darlin', will any of these nice boys be joinin' us, then?" Shirley asked, tones rolling as she beamed.

"No," he sighed, resisting the urge to rub at the headache pounding in his skull, "no, they won't be, Mother."

~/~/~

Rosie blinked rapidly as she tried to wake herself up. After having attended Friday night's service only to work another overnight, Saturday's _Seder K'riat HaTorahble had become a blur. It was true that she respected _Rabbi Emma Eyesnbooger, the religious leader all things grandmotherly, but after a while the Hebreww all blended together.

It didn't help that in between verses her mother had been whispering back and forth with a Leah Abrahamson, a habit the family had long-since resigned themselves to ignoring. But the topic involved had been _her_—her singlehood specifically, and which, "good Ew-ish boys she should be matched up with." With that in mind Rosie had tried to block out her mother's voice—and had succeeded in doing so whilst dozing off.

Even Billy had been well-behaved, an odd occurrence and detrimental in this case. He'd played quietly with a soft book in his tentacles, sometimes signing specific words he heard. Rosie was reading the Torahble to him when she could—between work, to-do lists, and what sleep she could glean—and being a three year old her son was starting to string simple sentences together. Since his babble tended to be silent, no one noticed his recitations.

Now she wished he'd been noisier, shaking his bell or getting up and down. Then she would have at least found out which unlucky bachelor her mother was trying to throw her at.

"It's Bucky Meyer," her brother, Ricky muttered as he came up on her, taking Billy's opposite hand as the boy toddled alongside his mother. The rest of the family was heading for the nosh and the Mercados had been about to join them, until her sibling tugged her toward the exit.

Although once Rosie heard the name she was more than willing to make a getaway.

"_Bucky Meyer_," she hissed, serpentine tongue adding to the effect, "that no-good _momma's boy?!_"

Her brother's brown eyes were sympathetic, wincing only once they were outside the building.

Ten years junior, yet the closest of her younger siblings, Ricky was nocturnal like their mother—the only one wholly so, and slightly allergic to direct sunlight to boot. The fact that he'd braved walking to her car, even after having donned a trench coat and hat, his wings tucked inside, showed his silent affection.

Then again, now that Rex and Joey were married, Rosie was a widow and Robbie and Timmy were too young, he was probably feeling the pressure to get matched off himself. Particularly as he was still living at home…under their mother's thumb.

"Alright, get in the car," Rosie muttered as he spied movement coming from behind the double glass doors. Knowing her luck, Kelly had probably seen the both of them duck out. She belted her son in with all the practice of a pro, moving out of the way for her brother to jump in.

Only after Mercado had managed to turn on the truck did her mother finally exit, and it was with a neon-green, spike-covered gelatinous mass in tow. She didn't wait until they were close enough to see Bucky's four eyes sweating, putting her foot to the pedal with a harsh screech.

"Close one," Ricky muttered with a laugh, "Becky Phlemalkis has been on my scent for a couple of weeks now, no matter what odorant I put on."

"Maybe you should try the human method—de-odorant or something like that. It might mask your natural stench," she offered, although on any other given day such a comment would have earned her looks of dismay and incredulity. As it was, Ricky gave her an odd, if speculative look.

"Not a bad idea, actually. Seriously, though," her younger sibling continued once they were on the road, Rosie's lead-foot starting to lighten, "Ma's gonna keep trying to marry you off until either Billy's got a new stepdad or she keels over, dead,"

Rosie growled, cutting off an Ichorghini car with barely suppressed rage. This time of day the lunch rush was in full swing within the inner-city, but she'd been driving offensively for years and took it all in stride. Well, rage aside, "'s only been a year. Alex is barely cold in the grave." Kelly never approved her daughter's artsy husband when he'd been alive, anyway. She could see how her mother saw it as an opportunity to strike again.

The shrug Ricky pulled caused a spike to pierce his jacket, scratching her car's already ratty seat covers, "Ma's not happy when she's not controlling someone's life, and Robbie and Timmy are too young."

The professional Scarer snorted, "that won't be for long. Not with Robbie graduating in the spring."

Ricky's cackle of laughter was unsympathetic, startling his young nephew. Billy had started fiddling for crumbs of an old chocolate-spike cookie he'd mashed into his car seat recently, "and doesn't he know it. Ma's been asking about some girl he brought home for a group project, but as far as I'm aware he's more interested in scream technology than in dating. Him and Joey with their projects, I swear."

"Yeah, but Joey just got married, remember. One more triumph for Ma to crow about."

The thought of scream energy, though, caught her up short, and the monster voluntarily went silent as her thoughts began turning inward until the smaller creature coughed to get her attention.

"So, what's really happening in your life? You've got that stressed kind of 'I'm going to crush your bones' look going on. And you're mostly past your 'rebel with a cause' phase, so I figured that's not it."

Rosie reached out a hand to slap the back of her brother's head, but he neatly ducked. Billy, thinking that they were playing a game, smacked his uncle across the face then doubled over in wiggling, silent laughter when Ricky yelped. When their chuckles finally settled again, she forced herself to face the music.

The single mother gripped her steering wheel tightly before finally admitting, "you heard about the Waternoose scandal?"

"Yeah?"

"It's about scream energy, but I can't say anything," Rocky nodded, and she figured that he'd read something in the paper, "Fear Co.'s making some…upgrades at work. Nothing's changed yet. But…"

"You're worried?" his brows lifted in surprise—his tough as claws sister rarely had doubts.

"A bit," Rosie muttered, turning the car into her complex's entrance, "about a few things."

He mulled over that, nodding, before he tentatively asked, "is it bills? I…overhead Ma talking," Her lack of response said more than enough, "because I can help out if you need me to."

Billy's insistent tugging on his sleeve distracted them both for a few moments as the toddler asked in halting sign language if he was going to stay over and watch television with him. Ricky coughed out a laugh and informed him both verbally and with finger spelling that he wasn't, while her lips tightened over the thought of more TV.

When Ricky finally turned back for an answer Rosie had settled her emotions enough to give him a collected, "thanks but…no. You just worry about yourself."

He eyed her thoughtfully before asking outright, "do you think you'll lose your job?"

In a single question he verbalized all of her worries, the knot in her stomach crystallizing into a diamond of anxiety. Rosie wet her lips and put the car into park, resting clawed hands on her lap.

"I don't know."

The two adults didn't say anything as they climbed out, Mercado releasing her child and her brother tugging his brim low over his face. Billy fussed as soon as she attempted to carrying him, insisting that he, "was no baby," with a wave of his tentacles. Wobbling up the stairs on his stunted legs, he looked adorable and determined, a miniature version of herself. She hardly noticed Ricky's presence as something warm, like rotten apple cider, welled within her chest. Particularly when her son reached the top, hands on his hips as though saying, "see! I told you I could do it!"

Then they were inside and Billy was back to being a little boy again, dashing all the way into his room if only to drag his favorite toys out into the entryway to show his uncle. He would have squealed if he had the ability to do so, she imagined.

Ricky had followed her up. It was a fairly regular thing for the monster to hang out at her place, a haven of solitude compared to the old family home. He'd later catch the bus to work and change into his uniform when he got there; there was less travel involved by heading from her apartment anyway, and he could always crash on her couch until it was time to leave.

"So what are you going to do?" the question came with a dose of expectation, as though she should have all the answers.

Uncontrollable rage roared in her ears for a few precious seconds, and she resisted the urge to slam her fist down on the green glass lamp Alex had found at a yard sale three years back. Only once the wave of anger had washed away, leaving her exhausted and sad, did she mutter, "I really don't know." She wasn't really mad at Ricky anyway. Just at her current situation.

"It's a terrible idea, but you could always move back in," he offered, wincing as soon as the words came out.

They exchanged a pair of pained looks. It really was a terrible idea.

"Or, you know, you could move in with Rex and his family. Billy would probably love to spend more time with his cousins."

She would also never get an ounce of sleep in that house, the way that their family of six and counting pounded their way through the two-story. His kids might have inherited most of his wife's feline appearance, but the grace she possessed was decidedly absent.

No, _anything_ was better than moving in with family—no matter which part of the family it was. There was no way in Tartarus she was intruding upon Joey's new marital state, either.

As though someone had had heard her thoughts, a thought came.

"_Did you just say __**anything**__?" _the voice cooed, sounding like her mother's twin. Piggybacking the question came a memory.

"_I think I recall your mention that you were having some financial difficulty."_

No. No, _no, __**no.**_ There was no way she would even _think _about such a human-crazed idea. Not with Worthington, not _ever_. Yet as she opened her mouth to change the topic, what came out was:

"Ricky, what if I told you an old f-friend from college offered me a cheap place to live?"

She was appalled, but plowed on. Might as well finish what she started and get a second opinion. Besides, what Ricky had to say couldn't be any more insane than the fact that she was even considering the possibility, right? "With a babysitter for Billy. Utilities included."

He blinked, just once, "I'd say to take it. Anything's better than Ma."

_Great minds think alike. _

Her brother hardly noticed her dry look, shrugging off his coat now that they were indoors, "what's the catch?"

"I'm just worried," Rosie muttered as she maneuvered a large pot out of its cupboard. With the kitchen being an open affair, she was able to continue conversing with her brother. Even so, brown eyes never made eye contact with his. She was sheepish to express her concerns, even if it was only with Ricky when she felt comfortable enough to admit such doubts.

For all that he was a male replica of their mother—resembling their Uncle Phineas, actually—he'd been Kelly's next disappointment after Rosie. After all, he wasn't a girl. Well, the girl that _she'd _wanted, a proper girl who was viciously cheerful and balanced both venom and sweetness with a kind of bubbly impartiality—just like Kelly. Instead Mrs. Pete Levin was stuck with five boys and one unsuitable girl, a daughter she had nothing in common with. If there was any one of her siblings she felt comfortable with it was Ricky, her mother's next big let-down.

"About?" Ricky asked, solemnly.

"First, my apartment," she waved her hand around to encompass the space, blue-painted nails dark flecks in the air, "I can't just pick up and leave—my lease isn't up for another five months."

Her brother's answer was straightforward, even if he was making eyes at the carpet, "then I'll take it. Sign the lease over to me."

She outright stared.

"…you're kidding, right?"

"Ma's driving me batty," he twitched his wings at the joke, but continued on in seriousness, "look, it's time to move out and I'll be fine."

"But you're a _waiter_ and a _bellhop_," she stated flatly, although the information was most definitely not news to him, "I'm a Scarer and I can barely afford this place on one income."

"Yeah, but I work at the Monstoria Hotel," he let that sink in, and Rosie realized that she'd never actually heard her brother mention _where_ he worked. Maybe it was intentional, so that their mother never assumed anything, "I get all the best tips because no one else wants to take the night shifts and deal with the nocturnal guests," his smirk was dry but honest, "look, I'll be fine. And this way you can find something better."

Rosie chewed on her bottom lip as she leaned against the counter with enough weight that it creaked slightly.

Her purple-grey brother raised his eyebrows, "aaaand I'm sensing that there's more to the story than you're telling me,"

"The apartment—it's Alex's place," Rosie admitted, quietly, "the apartment is-was our home."

"And you would have grown out of it sometime or other," the truth in his voice was blunt, but honest. A Levin trait, "look I'll watch over it until you have saved up enough to move back in. Make sure nothing happens to the furniture you don't take with you, and all that."

"Okay. Well, if I do take it, _not that I will_," she said shortly, though the protest seemed a mere formality this time, smile tugging at her mouth until there was a glint of fang, "Ma'll kill me."

"She hasn't murdered me for dumping Shelly, and you _know_ how much she loved that girl," he huffed out a laugh.

Rosie winced. She did know—Shelly was a carbon copy of Kelly. Ignoring the thought, she continued muttering, "and if I _do_ take it, I just might kill _him._"

"I know what you're capable of, but that's a bit of a stret-," Ricky froze, expression caught mid-smirk. Then it fell slightly, "did you say 'him'?"

Rosie's eyebrows rose blandly. And in that space of time she moved to check the coughee maker. In the living room Billy had built up a suitably large pile of toys with all the swiftness of a natural born gatherer, and Ricky tagged along into the kitchen as though in a daze.

"Wait, you're serious, aren't you?"

She barked out a laugh, turning away to pour herself a mug of coughee sludge. Once done the Scarer offered him a cup as well, "do you remember that jerk that I hated in college?"

"John Williams or something?" he accepted the semi-liquid drink numbly.

The elder sibling was succinct, sarcasm and irony evident, "_Worthington._ The third."

Ricky was stuck gaping at nothing, his mind caught up in the realization that he _recognized that name_. From history books, from articles in the newspaper. Well, maybe not that name exactly, since there was three of them apparently, but _still_,"…you're kidding me, right?"

"Nope," the grey monster laughed. A cruel and desperate type of laugh, the kind used when one's options have all but been cut off, like a sphinx trapped in a corner.

There were a few more minutes of speechlessness as the siblings drank their respective beverages and then the shorter of the two finally said, "well. I still think you should do it."

That hadn't been what she'd expected. Rosie blinked. Several times.

"Really?" the single word was as dry as a bone in the middle of a desert.

"Yes, yes I think you should. Especially if it involves Warnering-something or other the seventh," he deliberately massacred the name, pretending that it didn't matter as he barked out a laugh, "with Ma's whole 'oh, what will the neighbors think?' mentality she might just die of a heart attack and then you'll save us all a load of trouble."

The idea was something laughable, nothing at all to take seriously. But when Ricky did leave for work Rosie hovered over the cordless phone, chewing at her lip until it started to bleed. Finally she picked it up and began dialing.

~/~/~

Surrounded by a mountain of boxes, Johnny's phone went off, neatly landing it in a half-eaten container of Chinese food. He stumbled to save it, getting goopy slime and noodles all over his fingers in the process, but somehow managed to wipe off the thing and press the green button in time. Not before he saw who was calling him, however.

"…Hello?" he asked, puzzled. Why in the world was _Rosie Levin_ calling him?

~/~/~

**AN:** The real title of this chapter is, "Conversations in Cars."

I wish I'd gotten this chapter out sooner, but things didn't work out. :S So instead I'm dedicating it belatedly to Crispy. I hope that it helps. –quiet, sympathetic smile- There will be another chapter coming fairly soon, as well. ^^

Also, it's not overly edited. Sorry. :S And Javier's existence in chapter one has been removed to make room for his real job, at M.I. Great job with the details there, Sherry. Nice work with getting things accurate. –facepalms-

**Sneak peak for the next chapter:** _"Oh! It isn't often that I get to meet one of Johnny's girlfriends. You're a bit more wholesome than the rest."_

**Song choice for this chapter:** "Movin' Out (Anthony's Song)" by Billy Joel

**Next**- forgive my terrible Spanish.

The "Juanito" nickname: I chose this for Johnny based on this Juan=John. Any word with –ito/-ita added to it refers to something/someone young and small. Like (Name)-chan or (Name)-kun in Japanese. Chico + -ito = Chiquito (Chih-kee-toe). Chico is boy, so chiquito is little boy. Same goes for Chica + -ita = Chiquita. "Johnny" is technically a child's name for, "John." So "Juan" becomes "Juanito."

And if my logic makes no sense, **just remember that I'm running on middle school and high school Spanish** (which is not real Spanish) plus the assistance of **Professor Google Translate** for this.

Rosie and the rest of the Levins are Reform Ew-ish. I tried to portray it as accurately as possible, but if I've made any mistakes please forgive me. :S

www. youtube watch? v=9Z_ gyc7yG _ c [Remove spaces] and www. reformjudaism what- expect- reform- shabbat- service [Remove spaces] were a huge help.

Ew-ish: Jewish

Hebreww: Hebrew

_Seder K'riat HaTorah__ (Service for the Reading of Torah): _There's a Friday night service as well, but this happens on Saturday morning.

Torahble: Torah + Terrible

Nosh: food before or after a service.

John Williams is an awesome composer.


	6. Unbelievable

**Cheer Co.**

By Shahrezad1

**Summary:** When Fear Co. changes to fit the times, Johnny Worthington and Rosie Levin are two "old dogs" which have to team up to learn new tricks.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters. Or really, anything Nathan Fillion**—**related. Woe is me.

~/~/~

Chapter 6

Rosie scowled as she squinted at the road. In the morning light, having recently gotten off her shift, the black top seemed to go on forever. The scenery wasn't helping dispel the illusion, either. When she'd left work with Worthington's address in hand Rosie had anticipated it being out of the way, but this was just plain ridiculous.

The streets and communities of Monstropolis, empty sans a few early risers and members of the living undead such as herself, slowly made way for actual homes and yards. Then as time passed those, too, became larger as eight-legged horse pastures began cropping up on both her left and right. It didn't help, either, that she'd already done some driving this morning in order to pick Billy up early.

It became worse when she realized just what kind of "house" she was coming up on, larger buildings appearing beyond expanses of green.

Johnny had sent her the address via text after their blessedly short phone call—a quick, "The House is at 10265 Shadow Park Drive." Using Gook-gle maps to find the place, she'd found it odd at the time that the little arrow seemingly pointed in the middle of a "field." Now she was worried that it might just be correct on all accounts.

Just how rich _was_ Johnny's family? And here he was griping about money issues.

Incredulity almost made her miss the turn, and Rosie jerked sharply as a sign marked, "Shadow Park Drive," appeared on her left. Then she was traveling down a gravel road bracketed by old Tendrilling Oak trees.

They liked to reach out their roots toward passerby, snagging them and pulling them into their maws for later consumption after their victims died of either suffocation or starvation. These, however, were as old as the land themselves and therefore languid. They no more than twitched their limbs as Rosie passed by, and at a greater speed than they would have been able to halt anyway.

Rosie frowned. While Tendrilling Oaks were a classic aspect of Monster landscaping they typically weren't used for public places these days. Previous generations had trained for survival among their roots, but such skills weren't needed anymore, particularly after the development of Scaring Schools such as Monsters University, Fear Tech and Scare U. The end result was that most of the Monster populace eschewed planting them; the fact that the Worthington "house" had them lining their entryway was a testament to the age of the estate.

The Scarer was grateful for their 'stateliness' and consequent lack of speed, for one. _Should_ she decide to rent whatever it was Johnny had prepped for her—although after the length of her drive she was leaning toward an irritated 'no'—the ancient nature of the trees would slow them down, thereby keeping Billy a tad safer. Not that he was known to avoid danger when it was so readily available. She sent a glance her son's direction, the small child's head lolling in his car seat.

When she'd picked him up her mother had been surprised, looking up from her crochet work and muted Soaps in order to gape at her only daughter. Kelly had this talent for all things craft-related, an ability she couldn't seem to pass on to any of her children. One such thing she liked to do was create a blanket for each of the Levin grandchildren. Billy's was a bright boyish blue, with zig-zagging teeth-like edges as a border, the one trait all of Ma Kelly's creations shared.

Rosie wordlessly shrugged and went to pick her son up. He'd blinked blearily at her through his triple set of eyes before going back to sleep once recognition occurred. Because Billy _was_ asleep the Levin matron couldn't verbally ask anything, which was a boon. But that didn't stop her from trying to stall her daughter.

Frankly, Mercado was glad she'd been able to duck out with both child and diaper bag in hand.

Turning her eyes back to the road, brown eyes grew darker and darker the further she progressed. The oak branches spread over the path, light filtering through green spiky leafs and speckling the gravel road. Just when she thought that it would go on forever there came a steady light at the end of the tunnel—a rounding "driveway," as it were, next to a large stone building.

Well, it wasn't Barkingham Palace, but it certainly was larger than any single "house" she'd ever seen. Somewhere between the size of the local library and the Scare School building at Monsters University, it was three stories at the most and a kind of speckled pale orange brick, the color of reptilian monster eggs. The angular roof was charcoal grey shingling, decorated with classic spike architecture and the sweeping arches of the late Bovinian era. The trim was a simple bone-white, and she spied six windows a piece on the first two floors—Rosie assumed the top one was an attic by the existence of only four on that level.

Thorny creeping ivy was growing up the left side of the building, covering the edges of the furthest windows, and the front doors were bracketed by looming pillars, the bottoms of which were carved into clawed feet. If she didn't know any better she would even say that the glint of reflected light on the right-side windows possibly came from a pond at the back of the estate—but that was only speculation.

_What had she gotten herself into?_

The thought was a curse upon her tongue, a hiss and byword she wanted to spit out like fresh, untainted food. But she couldn't focus on it for long as she came up the arching drive and the doors opened as if on cue. Johnny Worthington strode out like he owned the place, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and looking as fresh as new paint.

Rosie swallowed what she wanted to say and decided that it would be best for her if she remained silent for now.

_What was this, some kind of crazed period drama?_

Her truck moaned to a stop and before Worthy got any ideas she unlatched her son, placing him over her shoulders so that his suction-cup held him to her even in his sleep, like a vampire bat baby or an oozing sloth. All the Levins had done something similar when they were young, tied or looped to a nocturnal mother as she went about doing her 'nightly' tasks while carrying her children. Billy himself was accustomed to hanging from Rosie by his tentacles, so he hardly stirred as she made the switch. Doing so freed her hands while keeping her boy by her side, although to others it looked like she simply had a rocky shawl covering her back, Billy's limbs reaching around her neck.

She pulled out of the truck itself right as he was coming around to open her door, climbing down and slamming the door shut.

Johnny blinked at the vehemence of her actions, but was able to smoothly move his outstretched hand back to his hips. He seemed unsure what to say so Mercado jerked her chin up in greeting.

"Worthington."

The previous thought of her old enemy as Mr. Fitzwailing Darcy was ousted as soon as Worthington opened his tactless mouth.

"Le-Mercado. Um, g-_good_ to see you," his voice cracked on the word 'good' and she scowled by way of habit, saying nothing. Thus he felt the need to dig his grave deeper, taking a deep breath before launching into what was most definitely a prepared speech.

"I just wanted to say that I appreciate that you're willing to see the house. It means a lot to me, the fact that you've set aside any…preconceived judgments to do it," Johnny began as a venture into some sort of neutral ground. But Rosie was having nothing for it.

"I don't judge you," she stated baldly, "much. Out loud."

He blinked at her, then continued his monologue, "still, I really hope that you like the space-."

Her lungs expanded with a mighty sigh. She was tired, had just gotten off work, and had nearly lost her way on the journey over, "you appreciate the honor, I get it, now can I see the house? I just got off work, Worthington, and I'm about to die on my feet. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't interested, so less talking and more walking."

"Right," Worthington repeated, less confident now, "ah, follow me."

Expecting him to go around the back to some sort of cottage or smaller building, Rosie was surprised as he led her straight through the main doors. Her scowl grew darker and deeper as the shadow of the building arched over her, putting them both within its influence. As they went in she could almost sense his form straightening, his chest puffing up with some element of pride. It was enough to make her roll her eyes, but she was too distracted by her surroundings to give it much thought.

The entryway was just as grand as the exterior. Meant to impress, rugs of red with gold trim paved the way across polished wood floors. If she didn't know any better she would say that they had just been cleaned. Rich burgundy wallpaper, elegantly etched to resemble staring faces and jagged teeth, brought her attention to various white-framed doorways and offshoots branching to her right and left. Meanwhile the space before her opened up into a curving stairway. To the side of the stairs was another double set of doors she was sure held something like a ballroom, Rosie but made a point of ignoring that observation.

He led her wordlessly through a series of parlors, each a different theme and color scheme, and what had to be a conservatory (who even HAD conservatories in this day and age?), filled with venomous daffodils, fanged snap-dragons, and a long series of Venus fly traps.

A sense of dawning horror was starting to numb her awe. Why exactly was Johnny showing her all these museum-like rooms? He didn't mean to rent the whole place, did he? Particularly when she was on such a tight budget.

The conversation she'd had with her brother, and the hope paired with it regarding the opportunity to maintain independence, was starting to crack. Never mind the fact that she was surrounded by beautiful antiquity and generations of monster history.

Coming upon another long hallway, Rosie felt a sinking sensation in her gut as she was directed toward a doorway through which she could see polished granite floors.

~/~/~

Johnny nervously motioned for Rosie to follow him. He'd been anxious—almost _too_ anxious—that Levin like the place that he'd almost forgotten the purpose of her arrival. She was here to look at the rooms and decide if she wanted to rent. Instead, it felt almost as though he was the one on display—or at least his family.

It had only been a couple of days back in the old place yet in many ways Johnny already felt like a kid again. Certain rooms reminded him of specific childhood events and as Worthington had been about to open the doors to meet her he recalled the first time he'd invited friends over.

There was the incident from when he was ten. It hadn't ended well—Jeff Bachem had gotten trapped in 'Uncle' Manny's cage, tucked inside the family weapons room.

It had been a relic from his great-great-grandmother's time when the family had yet to emigrate to what was then Monstroville. They'd lived among the humans up at that point, till Manny was trapped in a maze by a crazy human king. As it was, Manny's sister Margaret had kept the thing as a symbol of why humans were dangerous.

It was just a matter of unfortunate circumstance that they'd lost the key to it a long time ago, and Johnny hadn't really been surprised when none of his schoolmates wanted to come over after that.

His second attempt at having friends over, and the later visits after that success story, didn't occur until college. By that time he'd learned to actively put preventative measures into play—the weapons room was locked, for one, and the house was spotless, for another. Not that it ever remained that way for very long.

He'd put forth effort to clean up the place in this case as well. While their sole maid came through once a week to sweep and dust, there was still much to do. Having taken two days off to focus on the move, Johnny finished his own stuff first before diving into a bout of cleaning.

Looking at him one wouldn't have guessed that he knew how to do menial chores, but his mother had made certain that he knew the business end of a broom—for the time when he moved out, if nothing else. Additionally, when updating the kitchen Shirley James Worthington made the decision to not install a dishwasher. It was a pain during the various parties and galas they'd hosted over the years, but made sense on a day-to-day scale—more so now than ever, his father and grandfather having passed away.

His father hadn't argued but hadn't supported the idea at the time, either. It was the way that his parents worked, really. Anything having to do with the family reputation, Johnny's role, and his education was handled by John-John. Shirley cornered the market on anything home or family event-related, which seemed to suit his father well.

After boxes had been taken care of Johnny pulled drapes open to let in the light and picked the room which he thought was most impressive. Part of him knew that he was showing off while the other side of him explained it away—his mother's motto was to treat guests as though they were a 'fang on a silver platter,' after all, and he intended on following the instruction to a T.

The preparatory tasks took on a new feel then, almost in competition against himself. Johnny had smirked at the thought, going on to hum as he mopped, scrubbed, and sorted. Alison Grayson, the maid, gave him an odd look as he passed by her at one point with cleaning supplies in hand. But she only shook her head and turned her stalk eyes away—if anything Ali had learned not to question Johnny's actions over the years.

The only child had even trimmed and watered his mother's snap dragons, an effort resulting in any number of cuts. Upon first appearing all of them squealed happily when he came in sight. Johnny instinctively dodged back, the plants being fond of his blood specifically. Yet still he prepped the conservatory for viewing.

His trials were the end result of trying to dodge his cousin Rupert by dodging into the conservatory. While he'd been able to successfully avoid the bigger boy, the bites he'd collected weren't worth it.

When Rosie had driven up in her beater—not that he had any room to judge, lacking a vehicle himself—an anxious paralysis temporarily overtook him, worse than facing any carnivorous plants. Worthington had prepped what to say, what to do, and which rooms were best for viewing, but all it had taken was one of her sneers to tear down his wavering confidence.

He'd been fighting to maintain some semblance of normalcy since Wordsworth informed him of the debts which were now his—some days it worked, and others it didn't. Johnny was quickly coming to the realization that interactions with Rosie Levin played a part in his faltering as well. At least as of late.

So seeing the grey female again sent a kind of dread through his veins, reminiscent of his first Scaring exam. Or a run-in with Hardscrabble.

Even the gratitude he'd expressed—true if not the best wording, per se—had flown back in his face. Now he wasn't quite sure what to do. Rosie was unimpressed with the halls he'd so carefully cleaned and prepared. Even the work he'd done in the conservatory was given no more than a cursory glance.

Summoning up a handful of courage, Johnny straightened until more of his characteristic swagger was able to buoy him through the interaction. He opened his mouth to speak while heading for the hall of portraits—those, at least, were impressive.

"The Worthington house has been in the family for several generations," as in, a lot, "going back to the Roc-oco era-."

Levin's voice cut him off, "no."

Johnny halted, blinking. In front of him Rosie was tense, teeth gritted so that he could hardly see her forked tongue as she gritted out the next series of words. Gripping the doorframe, the female glared at him head-on as though Johnny was the instigator of all her problems. It was moments like these when he wasn't surprised that the females were the deadlier of their species.

"I said…no. No, I don't want to see some ancient vase or fancy painting."

Johnny straightened as self-consciousness zinged through him—she was closer to home with that guess than she probably knew. A feeling which was immediately fueled by panic.

"Look, Levin, it's just one more r-!"

"It's _**Mercado,**_ Worthington. As you seem to forget, _time and again_. When are you going to get that into your bull-headed brain of yours?!" she hissed, "and no. I'm not going to see 'just one more' anything. By _Jaws_, Worthington, what are you trying to do here? Why even _mention_ that you had a place for me to rent if all you were going to do was rub how _rich_ you were into my face? Problems with rent, my tail. You haven't changed at all since college."

He gaped helplessly, his famous jaw working up and down but nothing coming out of it. Was that what she thought he was trying to do?!

"You know what, if that's the case then I'm just gonna leave."

Rosie turned on her heel and Johnny grabbed her arm to stop her, reacting without thought.

It was an overall bad idea.

The furious glare she bestowed on him for just _touching _her let alone thinking that he could restrain her movement resulted in a near fist-to-the-face, and he could practically feel Rosie's arm tense up into solid rock within his grip. Johnny was reminded quite forcefully of the fact that he had his mother's hands, would_ always_ have his mother's hands, and that Rosie did not have ones similarly small. She could very well knock him flat—again. But she held off, just barely.

In that space he tried to say something to diffuse the situation. What came out was—

"Johnny, honey! Is this the friend you were talkin' 'bout?"

Both 'adults' drew back from one another like kids caught fighting on the playground. Rosie stepped away as he let go, and both turned to face his mother as though on cue. Shirley, for her part, was unfazed by what she saw.

Unwinding a long scarf the color of the sunset from around her neck and setting her purse down on a nearby pedestal, a string of pearls was revealed beneath. The piece had been a gift from his father, the jewelry paired with shark-tooth earrings from the first excursion into the human world outside of work on their honeymoon trip to the Bermuda Triangle. That is, before laws were enforced making it illegal for all those not on Scaring duty to cross over.

Mrs. Worthington was elegant and refined, her golden fur groomed meticulously and a pleasant smile on her face as she turned toward Levin expectantly.

He remembered belatedly that she'd just returned from her Flying Spaghettorian meeting that morning, as indicated by the soft-bound New Monsternational Barb-le, her scripture of choice. She in turn took in their almost-altercation with interest, noting Rosie's fisted claws and Johnny's look of panic.

"Why, I don't believe we've eva met," Shirley began congenially, reaching out to clasp Rosie's hand in a friendly grip, startling the monster from her ire, "I'm Mrs. John Worthin'ton. Well, John-John to make things less confusin'. Or Shirley! Friends, an' enemies mind you, call me that. Johnny's companions have all taken to namin' me Mrs. W, which I think suits me just fine."

While his mother swiftly tempered the situation he took a step back, a move she didn't miss.

"What is your name, dear? An', dare I say it, you look absolutely _lovely_ in tha' maroon blouse of yours. I wish I could pull off bruise hues, which sure are in all the rage, but I can barely do anythin' with this pelt o' mine," a wave down at her furred form belied this statement, as clearly she could wear whatever she pleased and get away with it, "you are _so very_ lucky to have a scale tone which will pretty much match with anythin'—like a ghost, so spectral! It must be a boon ta you when you Scare. I'm assumin' you're a Scarer, as you would probably do well in tha' field. What did you say your name was, agin'?"

"I didn't," Rosie removed her palm from his mother's grip, "and I really should be going."

"Oh, now don't mind me!" Shirley exclaimed, "I see wha' it is! I must'a interrupted some'in then, between you two. Oh!" she snapped her fingers, "I understand. You must be courtin' and here I am, the uni-goose which horned its way right into the conversation," Shirley tapped one of her own antlers to demonstrate, "it ain't often that I get ta meet one of Johnny's girlfriends. Yer a lot more wholesome than the rest," the pale yellow monster smiled.

_Wholesome?!_ Johnny grimaced and choked on his words. Beside him Rosie stiffened and with all the creaking slowness of a horror flick she turned and _looked at him_.

"Uh, ah. Well, Mom, this is Rosie. We-."

"I'm _not_ his girlfriend," the Scarer growled.

"She, ah," Johnny began, stumbling.

"I'm the one who gave him that black eye," the monster continued, arms crossed.

Shirley's smile got wider, if anything, "oh, good! The Worthin'ton men have always needed ta be taken down a few pegs once in a while."

That seemed to release a bout of weak laughter from him, "a-actually she's right! About the not being my girlfriend. You see, Rosie here's actually an old _buddy_ from college. _And_ a coworker! She's a bit down on her luck and needed a place to stay. And I didn't really want to bring it up but-."

The grey monster outright hissed in his face and Worthington resisted the urge to jerk back and swat at the thing.

"—w-weeeell, you, ha ha, forced my hand. Anyway," he coughed, and edged away from her murderous glare, "Mom, meet Rosie Le-ah! I mean, _Mercado_. Rosie, meet my mother. Shirley James Worthington."

For the first time since the 'girlfriend' bomb had been dropped Rosie looked away from him, and the purple male felt as though the eye of Sauron (an old School Principal) had finally turned. The searing glare dimmed as the two women began chatting, and he wasn't sure if he only was imagining the smell of burnt fur.

"Charmed," Rosie stated baldly, fighting back a grimace. Her left eye did, however, twitch.

"I really do apologize for the misunderstandin'," Shirley said in turn, still with her cheerful gaze focused on Levin. Expelling a deep sigh, his old schoolmate nodded in acquiescence.

"It's fine."

"So!" Johnny clapped his hands loudly, destroying the moment. Levin-Mercado scowled at him, "how about another tou—_oOW!_"

The yelp became a scream as he found his scalp burning and his eyes smothered by a wet, rubbery surface. Something was smashing down his lids in even as it tugged at his eyebrows.

Had he been listening instead of screeching Johnny probably would have noticed that Rosie's strange shawl no longer hung from her shoulders. Additionally he probably would have heard the Scarer mutter, "Oh, _Billy_," before moving close enough to tug at the parasite on his head.

Five minutes and several long and painful tugs later, Rosie had the mischievous mass of fur and damp rubber tucked protectively in the cage of her arms and Johnny was missing patches of fur from his eyebrows.

"What…was that?!"

"That," Rosie responded with a certain amount of tartness, although she couldn't seem to keep the glint of a smile from her features, "was my _son_, Billy."

"You're so-!"

Any indignity was overshadowed by his mother's laughter, the aged monster shaking so hard that her rack of antlers quivered along with the heirloom chandelier above her. Worthington opened his mouth to say one thing and what came out instead was-.

"He can stay."

-because he hadn't heard Shirley laugh like that since they got the news regarding his father's heart attack.

Rosie's smile dropped into a sneer, "who said he wasn't?"

"Well, isn't he just the most adorable little monster I ever did see," Shirley cooed in turn. And as though Billy's mischief sensor had been turned on, he arched in his mother's grip to blink all three of his eyes as the strange golden-blonde creature in front of him. The child wiggled out of Levin's hands to slide to the floor, taking a few tentative steps toward Mrs. Worthington. What happened next was a surprise to everyone.

"He actually doesn't like to be hel-oh! Um, never mind."

The child, normally abhorring the adult act of carrying him around (mostly to keep the toddler out of trouble), willingly raised his tentacle arms above his head for Shirley to pick him up—and she obliged like a pro.

"Oh, this here is a real sweetheart. He must be a wonder ta his mother. Yes, you wanna be jus' like her, I kin tell."

The unexpected duo shared a beaming, conspiratorial look as Rosie gaped on. Meanwhile Johnny was trying to process what had just happened.

Rosie gave him a look he couldn't decipher, although he did notice the monster straighten slightly as though something had left her—worry or anxiety? Well, whatever it was, he hoped that she'd let go of some of her pent-up aggression with it.

"An' you showed Miss Mercado all the important rooms, then?" his mother asked cheerily all the while bouncing the toddler on her hip.

The purple male chuckled awkwardly, hand going to rub the fur at the back of his neck, "um, yes, Mom. All the usual places."

~/~/~

Rosie was a veritable witness as Johnny's mother's amethyst gaze turned stony, _"what_ usual places?"

"The ballroom. The, ah, conservatory, too. I was about to show her the hall of portraits," he rushed to explain, motioning to the doorway behind him, but his mother spluttered out a laugh.

"Well, no wonder she was rarin' to go, honey. No boarder wants to see stuffy ol' things like that. Heck, I go a month practically between visits to the ballroom," she gently scolded. But the woman's expression did soften slightly, "I will thank you for visitin' my plants, though. Even with how much it _pains_ you."

_What now?_

"Well, then," Shirley turned to the single mother with Billy still in her arms—he had yet to demand being put down, which was a feat in and of itself, "let's get the real tour underway. You're probably in a rush to be somewhere—I know I always was. Follow me, sweetheart."

Rosie gave the strangely deflated Worthington male a curious look but decided against her better judgment to follow his mother. Johnny trailed behind.

The end result was a real tour of the manor's essentials—the kitchen, which strangely lacked a dishwasher, and the laundry room, which gloriously possessed a working washer and dryer, plus a laundry chute. Both were cheerfully wallpapered, this time in mint green. The pattern of glaring faces had been switched for one of dandelion sprigs—the little flowers caught in a permanent roar. The repeated image was frivolous, a tad childish, but as happy as the woman before her.

The exterior herb and vegetable gardens were next, as well as the pantry, where plants were left to rot until they were deliciously overripe. As they entered the house Shirley finally turned back to her son, furred brows raised in a pleasantly querying expression.

"Johnny, why don't you show Miss Rosie here," she'd dropped the 'Mercado,' somewhere between the laundry room and the garden, "the room you prepared for her."

He filled his barrel chest with air and nodded shortly before taking the lead. But as they headed up the main staircase and took a right the grey giant couldn't help but note Mrs. Worthington's buoyant expression slip away.

"Here we go," Johnny muttered, then motioned them through a white door with elaborate moldings.

The room was all wrong, she could tell that immediately. The whole place was ivory, from bed sheets to carpeting, and the interior was lit with enough sunlight to burn a flame-breather. It took only a few moments for Billy to wiggle down, crawling along the floor and leaving a mud trail behind him via their trip in the garden. He returned to his newly adopted grandmother figure with grinning eyes, whereupon Shirley lifted him back up without complaint.

They gave it another few moments before, "hmm," was all Johnny's mother said, tugging Rosie by the wrist and ignoring her son entirely. The former was rather a feat, considering that she only met her guest's shoulder, but whatever it was she seemed pretty determined so the Scarer let her lead.

When Mrs. Worthington finished they were on the opposite sides of the manor, in a darkened wing of rooms. Then Shirley was pulling a key ring from among her antlers, unlocking a tall viridian door and motioning Mercado in.

Rosie entered curiously, but within a moment was hard pressed not to gasp.

The deepest blues she'd ever seen were her first impression. Like the sky at midnight or a sapphire on black velvet. Light filtered softly through a gap between long damask curtains, thinner material frothing up like sea foam, and within the gentle beam she could see that the interior had been clearly split between two parts by a artistically rusted metal-and-ruby partition the color of dried blood. Each folding segment arched upward in a curving peak, looking like they'd been stolen from a stained glass window.

This side of the room was just as fascinating as the divider itself. It was clearly a receiving area, an almost-parlor bearing a long pearl-toned sofa and smaller cream arm chairs for visitors. The sofa itself was tuckered in parts, fabric pulled in to create an elegant appearance, but even from here Rosie could tell that it was made of sturdy, washable material—ready to handle any spill. It was beautiful, but also functional. All three pieces, plus a small side table with clawed monster feet, were set before a fireplace, medium in size with a mantle made of gold-flecked lapis lazuli.

The walls themselves, a mix of the azure she'd seen previously and a muted golden brown, held a single mirror on either side, the two reflecting each other into eternity. The flooring was stone, but covered in sturdy braided rugs which were the green of the ocean's depths, and the large expanses she could see were riddled with claw marks as though many monsters used to pass through. Whatever the case, further use wouldn't harm the flooring and the rugs dealt with much of the cold which seeped through old houses.

Entering fully into the space as though in a daze, Rosie rounded the partition to view the "bedroom" section. A large four-poster bed, light wood unvarnished and unpainted, sat in the center. The bedding was a very deep plum but the pillows were a smattering of putrid green and metallic orange—Alex's orange. She hardly noticed the large wardrobe to the side, wood also simple but varnished, though her eyes did catch on the door to the right.

"This used ta be the nanny's quarters, back when John-John an' I both worked all the time," Shirley said 'all' with a drawl, making it sound more like 'awl,' "Before that it was John's sister's," his mother answered for her in the silence, "I had it renovated for when my sisters visited. O' course, they always brought one or more o' Johnny's little cousins with them when they did so."

There was an uncomfortable cough behind them which both ignored.

"The door on the right leads to the nursery through a shared bathroom. Once upon a time it was Liliana's parlor. This way you can keep contact with your little one," Shirley smiled down at the child in her arms, before falling silent.

Rosie turned slowly, her expression unreadable, "how did you know?"

The question was both vague and yet specific. Mrs. W. smiled, shrugging humbly, "I was a young mother once. Besides, you look good in bruise tones. And it seems ta me that Johnny may have forgotten that you are _not _in college anymore."

Looking not at her original host, but to the true homeowner, Rosie straightened, hands clasped and legs a military shoulder-length apart as she stated quite firmly, "alright, I'll take it."

Mrs. W. smirked and handed Billy over, "Good. I look forward ta seein' you again. You seem like a nice young woman."

"Thanks, Mrs. W."

When Rosie finally drove away the golden monster turned to her son with crossed arms.

"You betta be fair with the rent you charge her, Johnny, or I won't be happy," with that threat aired Shirley reentered the house, expression a thundercloud.

Apparently his mother was more observant than he'd given her credit for.

~/~/~

AU: Sorry about the wait! D: I was writing this chapter from Johnny's POV at first, which was all wrong (as he would hardly notice the details, having lived there all his life and taken it for granted), so I had to redo the entire beginning in Rosie's POV.

Also, I attended Salt Lake's first Comic Con. It was cool. I got to attend a panel with Dean Cain. :D (Highlight of my life. I've adored that man since I was ten.)

The "I don't judge you," line was actually created by a friend of mine, and I've been waiting for the right moment and the right character to use it for years. So way to go, Rosie! ;D This same friend is the one whom I turn to for my "Brooklyn Jewish Mother" accent. She's a pro.

Writing Shirley is basically like describing an older Lottie from "The Princess and the Frog." Muahaha.

If you want to know what the "Spaghettorian" reference…you should look up the, "The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster," otherwise known as Pastafarians. ( www. venganza or en. wikipedia wiki/ Flying_ Spaghetti_ Monster) Because if there was any monster which was to be considered a deity (outside of Cthulhu), the flying spaghetti monster fits the bill.

Also, it's an inside joke with my sister. :D

I just finished watching the first season of Castle for Johnny research (plus it's hilarious), and realized that Rosie and Beckett have a lot in common (of course, I watched the show after having written most of Rosie's scenes beforehand, though).

So if Rosie sounds a tad like Kate then I apologize, mostly. It's scenes such as the one where she states, "call me a muse again and I'll break both your legs," in which I see the similarities.

Sorry, not sorry. ^^

Song choice for this chapter is EMF's, "Unbelievable."

I had a general idea of what the Worthington manor/house/chateau/manse looked like before the story began. I was reading something or watching something, I can't remember, where it said that if any personality was reflected in the Roar Omega Roar house then it was Johnny's. That kind of stuck with me, and I took the basic design of that Frat house as a springboard for the way his family's place is. Because it makes sense that he feels comfortable in an environment similar to the one he grew up in.

Naturally, however, it's also the end result of maaaaaany generations of living. So there's going to be various influences throughout. The different sections of the W. place were decided upon via lots of research, first in the character's personalities as well as what kind of designs would mesh. I have a tendency to be the recipient of my roommate's "Elle Décor" and "House Beautiful" magazines among others, and use those as research.

AKA she hands them right over to me and I rip them down into piles of, 'fabric and patterns,' 'anatomy,' 'information,' 'interiors,' 'exteriors,' 'faces and profiles,' and 'clothing.' Then I staple together tiny packets for each person.

I am such a freaking nerd. But I really do think that one's décor says a lot about a person.

Currently my apartment says, "broke art student with an anti-social, sometimes violent, roommate." XD


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